On Your Knees
by myswordfishmind
Summary: AU, Based on the film "Secretary": After he is invalided from the war, John feels his life is quickly spinning out of control, but when he finds a job assisting a man by the name of Sherlock Holmes he may find the very thing he's needed all along. (Warnings: Sub/dom, BDSM, self-harm)
1. Chapter 1

Hello darlings, just a quick note: Please do heed the warnings. If self harm, sub/dom or BDSM themes make you uncomfortable in any way, please seek another johnlock story. We are fortunate enough to have many talented writers in this fandom, I'm sure you can find something more to your taste.

Additionally, this story will have five chapters and hopefully will be updated very regularly, I just need to find the motivation to write the last chapter.

That said, please enjoy! Any critique on how the themes are handled, the writing style and/or the characterisation are greatly appreciated.

* * *

**On Your Knees**

**Chapter One**

For John, the war was over. There, everything had a chaotic sort of structure. John had had a purpose which he didn't deviate from, a set of orders to follow which dictated every sandy patch of his life, keeping him contained, sane, controlled. His need for the battlefield was a strange sort of masochism; he didn't want to die, but the danger of it was addictive, the prospect of harm what kept him alive, grounded. He knew that different people became soldiers for many different reasons, but his was simple; he needed it. Since he was a young boy he had needed it, needed his life not to be completely in his hands, for it would break in his clumsy fingers. He needed to feel the thrum of adrenaline and blood and risk like others craved security and comfort. There was no other way to explain it; he _needed _it. It was who he was.

The notice of his invalidation had been a numb sort of apocalypse. It was over. Not only the war; his life. Him. When he had arrived in London he had felt everything was diluted, the landscape of the city painted in watercolours, tinted a shade darker by the anxiety that curled like a poisonous snake at the pit of his stomach. The careful threads of his being were unravelling.

Here, he was afraid he would not survive. There was a sort of irony in that, but John was too tired to laugh.

...*...

John's sister, Harriet, was a force of nature. There were moments of tenuous calm, but when the storm hit, it was with brutal force. That he was living with her was a cruel joke, a transportation back to his awful, formative years. Any sanity he could hope to hang on to was destroyed by her, by her wild ways, her sudden outbursts. But without any real set of educated skills and therefore source of income, John's hands were tied. He depended on her, and that was a terrible fact. On top of that was the guilty knowledge that he had barely contacted her throughout his stay in Afghanistan, even though he knew things were not well with her. But since they were kids he had had a difficult time dealing with her; she reminded him too much of their now deceased father. Her temper. Her drinking habit.

John had gone down one path of destruction. She had taken another.

His life was now contained in the dull guestroom in her house, which she shared with her wife, Clara. Clara stood at the other end of the spectrum; a calm creature, soft spoken and overly tolerant of his sister's faults. John loved her, a love born through familiarity and a feeling of being brothers-in-arms. In fact, he often felt Clara was more of a sister to him than Harriet. Sometimes he wished she had been present in his life when his father had been alive; maybe then John would not have been so completely destroyed by him.

...*...

"How is the job search going?" Clara asked as she brought two mugs of tea into the living room, where John sat with his laptop perched on his thighs. He took the cup with a thanks and shook his head.

"I don't know what you people have been doing to the job market in my absence, but things are pretty crap out there," he replied, holding the tea until it burned his hands. Clara smiled, an apologetic tilt to her head.

"Yes, I'm sorry, I'm afraid we've bunged things up for you. Terribly inconsiderate of us," she joked, and John chuckled.

"Well, it's not exactly all your fault. I have no skills to speak of, not taking into account shooting at people, and I don't think that's in high demand in London."

"No, probably not. But don't you worry, if I ever need someone shot, you'll be the first person I call."

"I can't wait, it's been a while. Though don't make them a quick one, this damn limp isn't exactly forgiving," John joked, but regretted it as Clara looked at his leg sadly.

"How...is that, by the way? How are you, really?" She asked, her eyes soft, though not pitying. John sighed. What could he possibly say? That everything was spiralling out of control? That each day he felt a little less sane, that he was terrified that this bland, bloodless life was to be his forever, that there was no hope for more, that the wooden box hidden in his wardrobe was a more tempting option every day? That he was both haunted by and longed for the war?

"I'm fine. Really, Clara, you don't need to worry. It's all fine," he said, but the sadness in her eyes simply deepened. She, as well as Harriet, knew about his secret. After all, those types of scars are hard to hide forever. Shame and guilt burned within him at the fact. He hated them knowing, judging him for it. But he hated himself more for needing it in the first place.

As if summoned by his anxious thoughts the sound of the front door opening reached them, and then something crashing to the floor. The coat rack, no doubt. John looked incredulously at the bottom, right corner of his laptop.

"Jesus Christ, it's only noon. Wait...did she come back home at all last night?" John asked, looking at Clara, who simply bit her lip and shook her head slightly. John clenched his teeth, anger surging through him. If his sister wanted to demolish herself then it was in her right to do so, but to drag Clara along with her...it was unforgivable.

Harriet took the cue to stumble into the living room, looking exactly as if she had been drinking all night, probably having passed out in her car somewhere with a store-bought bottle after the pubs had closed. Her eyes were red and she reeked of stale booze and sweat, even from a distance.

"I...had a meeting at work," Harriet said pathetically. Clara closes her eyes, shaking her head.

"You're drunk. Again. You _promised!_" She said. "For God's sake, Harriet, it's twelve O'clock on a Tuesday, it's my only day off!" Clara went on, and John shut his laptop. He didn't want to be there. He wanted to be scorched under the Eastern sun, sweating below his uniform, ready to die or to kill, to not feel this..._lost_.

"I'm not drunk!" Harriet shouted, wobbling to the couch and crashing down on it. John and Clara shared a desperate look. There were tears in Clara's eyes.

"Harriet, you can't keep doing this," John said, and Harriet laughed.

"Who are you to lecture me? You've done worse things to yourself," she said darkly, and John winced.

The worst thing about her knowing was the way she used it as a weapon against him. John felt broken and worthless alongside her tidal wave force.

"Harriet!" Clara admonished, but Harriet just gave her a petulant look.

"What, you can judge _me_ but not _him_? And I'm not drunk. I just had a few drinks and the time got away from me. I'm fine!" Harriet snarled. Clara took a deep, trembling breath.

"Why don't you go upstairs, John? I'll take care of her," Clara suggested quietly, and John shook his head.

"No, Clara, let me-"

"John, please. It's not...I can handle it." It was a lie. Nobody could handle Harriet when she was like that, but John couldn't face making things worse for Clara. He couldn't really face that kind of stress again at all. He stood up slowly, looking at Clara with empathy. He knew what it was like to live with someone who was slowly self-destructing with drink. The demolition was contagious, it ate up everything around it, including the people they loved.

"Clara...if you need anything..." John trailed off. As if someone who couldn't handle their own head could help with someone as messed up as his sister. But, for Clara's sake, he would try.

"It's fine. I'm used to it." And that fact saddened John most of all.

John stood up and left the two women, and their raised voices followed him up the stairs. He shut the door of his bedroom softly behind him and sat on the bed, his hands clenching around his knees until he could feel his nails through his thick jeans.

Wasn't it pathetic? That he could face down a war, could fight for a million strangers, for his country, but couldn't deal with his alcoholic sister? Where was the sense in that? But life didn't make sense. The weaknesses people held were not ordered and sensible, they were deep and chaotic, hiding below veneers of false strength.

And John, John couldn't help himself anymore.

He leaned his cane against his bed, his mind blank as he limped to his wardrobe, opening the doors slowly. He shifted with ease through the clothes and blankets to reach a rectangular, wooden box. He took out two small towels, and rearranged everything back, before sitting back on the edge of the bed. With an air almost of reverence, he opened the box. There was nothing outwardly attractive about it. It was simple, polished, nondescript; like him. But, like its owner, what it held inside was much darker. Held in place with black bands, like the workbox of an artist, rested a multitude of different blades, from different periods of his life. Old-fashioned shaving blades, a well kept scalpel, pieces of wood he had sharpened in his teenage years to block out the shouts of his father and his sister downstairs, a toy soldier with its bottom half melted to a point, an old tool stolen from his father's collection. A small tub of antiseptic, and another of iodine slept beside each other alongside the collection. John let out a long breath, the very sight of them calming him down, transporting him instantly to a place of control. Everything else was blurred and unpredictable. No job, no house, his friends left in a war he should be fighting in. How did people cope? He just didn't understand, how could they stand the constant stress, the unhappiness? How could they stand being so constantly surrounded by people, but feeling so _alone_? Didn't it make them desperate?

Was anybody happy at all?

John could be strong, he knew he had it in him, but since he was little the sheer amount if things in his life that were completely out of his control were overwhelming. A sick mother that eventually died, a drunk father, a sister whose charm attracted all around her only to be drowned by her bestial temper. John simply hadn't been able to comprehend how people developed the necessary coping skills to deal with all that. He was young, and afraid of being consumed by everything around him. Lost.

The first time he had cut himself, he had been fourteen. He couldn't remember exactly what had motivated him to do it, how he knew it would work; but it did. People seemed to think that self-harm, if one had to call it something, was a cry for attention, or a suicide attempt. That wasn't the case. For John, at least, self harm was a way to cope, to _survive_. When he made the first cut, the pain it caused erased everything else. All his worries, his intangible problems, they were replaced by something real, something that was actually a part of him, something which he was controlling. He watched the blood run from his thigh and he had felt relief. _This is real_, he had thought. _This is me, right here, right now. I'm alive. I'm ok. _

Of course, there was a reason why self-harm was not the poster method for coping mechanisms. Not because of the physical aspect, but because, at the end of the day, it didn't really solve anything at all. It wasn't a problem-solving method, it was an escape. And though he found comfort in the pain, in watching the scars heal and become part of him, he never really figured out how everybody else actually dealt and solved their problems without going insane. This was why the war had been such a blessing. That had been the ultimate self harm; the ultimate escape.

It had been years since John cut himself; in the war it hadn't be necessary, or even possible, really, with the amount of privacy provided, but he hadn't forgotten the sensation, the ritual. He removed the toy soldier, for the irony, and doused the tip in the antiseptic. He laid it aside and removed his trousers, folding them beside him neatly, and placed the towel on the bed before sitting on it. He grabbed the soldier again and without hesitation presses it against the already marred flesh on his inner thigh. There the skin was thin and sensitive, and John hissed out a wince as it split against the pressure in a slow line. Blood bloomed immediately, dripping slightly on the white towel. The red of it seemed to be the only real colour in the monochrome room, on his monochrome self. The pain, an old friend, washed everything out; the fight downstairs, his own despair, the memories of the war which tormented him at night, a nocturnal force that waited at the back of his mind, ready to hunt. When he lifted his hand he was panting, and the rush of neurotransmitters left him, after a moment, calm and composed.

It was the only familiar thing in his now unpredictable world.

He sat there for a few minutes, letting the tension ease from his shoulders. When he felt ready he wiped the blood away with the second towel, applying the iodine methodically, closing the cut with evenly spaced band-aids, narrow and small, a Frankensteinian mockery. He wiped clean the toy soldier carefully, feeling its grooves, its sharpness. He stood up, re-dressing, before folding the now slightly stained towel and putting everything back in its place. The click of the shut box was a comforting sound, and he went to his wardrobe, hiding the evidence away.

He could still hear Harriet and Clara downstairs, but their voices were far away, in their own world.

Everything faded. Everything was better.

But the feeling didn't last.

...*...

The air in Hyde Park, though not nearly as fresh as in Afghanistan, was as good as it got in London. John tried to breathe deeply, though his chest felt clenched and small. He had stepped out of the house, needing the space. Life with Clara and Harriet was suffocating. It had been a month since he had arrived, and already he felt desperate to leave. He was already regretting that first cut; in the back of his mind he knew that a part of him had wished that phase of his life was done with, that, once his war days were over, he would be able to function like a normal human being. But the battlefield had cured him of nothing. If anything, it had made his dependency worse. After the third time self harming in the guest bedroom he had attempted to throw away the box, wrapping it up in the stained towel as if he were abandoning his own newborn child, but he hadn't been able to. He had spotted Clara, sitting alone in the living room, Harriet once again lost to the night, and wondered if what he did was really so terrible. Everybody was dependant on something; Clara was afraid of being alone, and depended on Harriet's companionship. Harriet was haunted by their father, and depended on drink. And John, John couldn't cope with the reality of his warless life, and he needed the pain. Others in the world depended on material goods, on drugs, on people or money. He knew he was just making excuses for himself, but he couldn't face his current lifestyle, the putrid London air, his adrenaline-less existence, without at least a little respite, even if it was crimson and metallic.

"John? John Watson?" A voice said behind him, and John stopped in his tracks, startled out of his thoughts. He turned around and it took him a moment to recognise his old schoolmate, Mike Stamford. It had been many years since they had seen each other, back in university before John had dropped out from the medical degree to join the army. They had met a couple of times after that but had eventually lost touch in the way old friends often did, a gradual parting of ways.

"Mike, Mike Stamford," the man clarified, and John awkwardly turned around, all too conscious of the cane he had to lean on.

"Yes, of course. Hello, hi," John replied shortly, shaking the offered had. The last thing he wanted was to make small talk with an old colleague, who would no doubt ask about the war, about the limp, about everything. The last thing John wanted to do was talk at all.

"Yeah, I know, I got fat!" Mike chuckled self-consciously, gesturing to himself.

_Yeah, that's what civilian life will do to you. _"No," John replied, utterly unconvincingly. It had been a long time since he had to be social in such a context. He was used to the easy banter between soldiers, the commanding tone with underlings, the tense and ordered replies when facing a superior, but not a conversation about "old times" with some man who belonged to a life John detested.

"I heard you were abroad somewhere, getting shot at. What happened?" Mike asked, and John tried not to snap at him, as if the cane weren't blindingly obvious, a cruel representation of exactly why John was there.

"I got shot," John replied in the calmest voice he could muster, though he doubted he was very successful. Mike stuttered, blushing, and John regretted his short temper, wishing for something sharper than the head of his cane in his hand.

Reluctantly, John agreed to buying coffee in a nearby stand and sitting with Mike. It wasn't as if he had anything better to do, and anything beat going back to the house.

"Are you still at Bart's, then?" John said in a half-hearted attempt at conversation. Mike snatched it up, eager to diminish the obvious awkwardness between them, born, no doubt, from John's tense and guarded pose.

"Teaching now. Bright young things, like we used to be. God, I hate them!" He replied, and John couldn't help but laugh a little. He understood the sentiment perfectly. "What about you? Just staying in town 'til you get yourself sorted?"

"I can't afford London on an Army pension, so I'm staying with my sister," John replied with a slight wince, wishing it weren't true. Perhaps in another life he was struggling on his own, another man, free from his demons. But that wasn't the case now.

"Ah, I guess you couldn't be anywhere else, that wouldn't be the John Watson I know!"

"Yeah, I'm not the John Watson..." He started almost angrily, but cut himself off. He wasn't going to make Mike take the misdirected brunt of his frustration. That could more usefully be directed at Harriet. Or himself.

He switched the coffee from one hand to another, clenching the now unoccupied one as a tremor ran through it, a bitter reminder of the state the war had left him in, of how much everything had changed. He was useless, broken, a psychosomatic limp, a partially immobile shoulders, a shaking hand, scarred thighs, an out-of-control mind.

"Uh...What about jobs? You doing alright?" Mike went on, flailing slightly in the quickly sinking ship. John snorted.

"Yeah, _right_."

"I'm sure there's something out there for you..."

"Come on, who would want _me_ as an employee?" John said realistically. He would probably rot in that house until Clara finally had enough and left, and then it would be him and Harriet in a sea of booze and blood. Wasn't that a happy thought?

John turned to look at Mike as the man laughed slightly, surprised that he could find comedy in his predicament.

"What?" John asked, and Mike shrugged, his cherub face dimpling with a smile.

"Oh, nothing, it's just...that's the second time I've heard something like that today," he replied, and John didn't know if to feel worried about the scheming twinkle in Mike's eyes. John tensed slightly, a flicker of anticipation igniting within him.

He had learnt to smell danger from a mile away, and it was delicious scent indeed.

...*...

The plaque outside the wooden door read _Sherlock Holmes_ in simple, silver lettering. Mike grinned at him slightly before stepping inside without knocking, and John limped in beside him, taking in the small, simple reception room, adored only with a pair of couches, a coat rack, and a secretary's desk, where a Mac computer rested. John's eyebrows rose as he caught sight of a young girl shoving things in a large cardboard box, tears brightening her eyes.

"Oh, Molly," Mike said, but the girl practically ran past them and out the door, sniffling quietly, her high pony-tail swinging wildly behind her before she disappeared. John looked at Mike, who shrugged sheepishly.

"If you get the job, she's the one you'll replace," he said.

"I see," was all John could really say, a tendril of trepidation uncurling within him, though the sensation wasn't completely unpleasant. On the contrary, John felt a little excitement at the prospect of meeting his new potential boss, made him want the job even more.

"Sherlock isn't the easiest guy to get along with," Mike explained.

"I see," John repeated, and followed Mike deeper into the woods. They walked through a short hallway on which bizarre pictures of body parts, retro surgical methods, and what appeared to be 18th-century murder clippings hung on the walls. They passed two closed doors and unto a third. John, expecting some kind of office, was surprised when the door opened to reveal a pristine, state-of-the-art laboratory. Two long tables ran parallel, cluttered with all sorts of beakers, microscopes, medical utensils, and a plethora of other scientific, miscellaneous items which John was unable to identify. At the end of one of those tables a man was bent over a microscope, who glanced at them for a moment before ignoring them. John took the opportunity to study who was no doubt Sherlock Holmes. He was a tall, pale man, a nest of dark curls dripping down to the nape of his neck. Despite the lab environment, he wasn't wearing a white coat, but instead was donned in an expensive looking suit.

"Mike, can I borrow your phone? There's no signal on mine," Sherlock asked, his voice low and smooth. John shifted slightly at the sound of it.

"And what's wrong with the landline?" Mike replied, sounding a little irritated

"I prefer to text."

"Sorry, it's in my coat." He lied. John, out of a sudden impulse that was difficult to name, pulled out his own phone, a cheap model he had bought not a week ago.

"Er, here. Use mine," John offered. There was a pause in which Sherlock glanced at Mike.

"Oh. Thank you," he said, walking towards John in long steps, buttoning his jacket as he went.

"That's an old friend of mine, John Watson," Mike introduced. Sherlock took the phone from John's hand and John tried not to be surprised by the odd, changeable colour of Sherlock's eyes. Sherlock looked a little disdainfully at the flimsy phone before beeping it out of its locked state.

"Afghanistan or Iraq?" Sherlock asked. For a moment, John wondered if he just imagined the question. He looked at Mike, who was smiling, but John was sure the man hadn't called in advanced to warn Sherlock that they would be arriving.

"Sorry?" John said, a little thrown.

"Afghanistan or Iraq, which on is it?"

"...Afghanistan. Sorry, how did you know?" John asked, but was completely ignored, his phone handed back to him as Sherlock strolled back to his microscope.

"How do you feel about filing?" Sherlock went on, typing away at a laptop. John looked back at Mike, who seemed to be sharing a private joke with himself.

"I...can do it?" John replied, at a loss. He hadn't exactly been to many job interviews, but the current one seemed beyond unconventional.

"How about the violin?"

"Sorry, what?"

"I play the violin when I'm thinking. Sometimes I don't talk for days on end, so you'll have to anticipate my needs, I won't baby you. Would that bother you? If you're going to work for me you might as well know the worst about me, I'm getting quite tired of the lawsuits," Sherlock said, and at the last words a slight smile curled around his mouth, a secret. John frowned.

"How did you know I was interested in the job? Did you call him?" He asked, turning to Mike, who simply shrugged, shaking his head,

"He didn't call me, but I mentioned I needed a new assistant and now here he is just after lunch with an old friend, clearly just home from the military service in Afghanistan. Wasn't a difficult leap," Sherlock said in a slightly bored tone, as if it should have been obvious.

"How _did_ you know about Afghanistan?" John asked, but Sherlock smiled, brushing the question off with a wave of his hand.

"You can leave now, Stamford," Sherlock said, barely looking at the other man, who chuckled slightly, obviously used to his antics.

"John?" Mike asked, and John turned to look at him. He felt a familiar feeling, as if things were falling into place.

"Uh, yeah, I'll find my way back. Er...thanks. I think," John said, and with a smile Mike disappeared out the door. John turned to look at Sherlock once again, his shoulders tensing.

"You should also know that, though at times tedious, this job can also be quite dangerous. Are you alright with that?" Sherlock asked. That question, at least, was easy to answer.

"I can deal with danger," he replied, lifting his chin slightly.

"We might get shot at."

"I've been shot before." Sherlock looked at him with a deep, inquisitive look.

"Good, you're hired." John stared at him, incredulous.

"What...don't you want to know anything about me? How do you know I'm fit for the job?" He couldn't help but ask.

"Oh, please, There's little you could tell me about yourself that I haven't already seen written all over you."

"Is that so? Care to enlighten me?" John asked, a little irritated.

"You're invalidated from Afghanistan with a shot shoulder, a psychosomatic limp, and a slight tremor in your hand. You were barely trained as a doctor before signing off to the military, meaning you have no skills to speak of, and are desperate for work. You're frustrated with your life, have no friends, are haunted by the war, and hate your home life, which means you won't mind spending long hours here, don't have other people to distract you from the work, and will do whatever you can to keep the job. Plus, you are obviously hard working and determined, not afraid of physical labour or, as you have stated yourself, danger. Should I go on?" Sherlock said in a quick tirade. John stayed stock still, feeling sucker-punched. A flush rose on his cheeks at being so predictable.

"How could you possibly know all that?" John asked. Sherlock waved a dismissive hand in front of his face. "Tell me," he insisted. Sherlock looked at him for a moment before opening his mouth.

"I didn't know, I saw," Sherlock replied, looking straight into John's eyes. "Your haircut, the way you hold yourself says military. Your face is tanned but no tan above the wrists. You've been abroad, but not sunbathing. Your limp's really bad when you walk but you don't ask for a chair when you stand, like you've forgotten about it, so it's at least partly psychosomatic. That says the original circumstances of the injury were traumatic. Wounded in action, then. Wounded in action, suntan – Afghanistan or Iraq," He rattled off in almost one breath, nearing John with each word until he stood, looming before him. John gaped at him.

"You obviously know Stamford from his university days, he wouldn't keep in touch with anybody before that, so medically trained, but you looked at most of the apparatus here as if you had no clue what they were, so not fully trained. Your old clothing, and cheap, new phone, suggests you haven't gone shopping or socialising, which would depress any normal person, I hear, so you are obviously not content. You missed a cufflink on one sleeve, so you left your house in a hurry. Therefore not happy with your home life. Living with a family member, I would bet, a sibling, perhaps, or you would be more tolerant, who is probably going through some kind of problem, an addiction perhaps. Yes, your face- drugs? No, Alcohol. Ah. Yes, or a man in your position wouldn't be able to judge. And I say you are hard working, determined and are not afraid of manual labour for the obvious reason that you have been at war for, what, the last decade of your life? Thus, someone I would want to employ. Satisfied?"

John could only stand there, staring at the other man, his heart beating a little faster.

"That...was fantastic," he said, truly awed. If what Mike said was true, Sherlock was a difficult man to get along with, but that was a small price to pay for that kind of brilliance. Sherlock raised his eyebrows, looking surprised at the compliment.

"Do you think so?"

"Of course it was. It was extraordinary; it was quite extraordinary."

"That's not what people usually say," Sherlock mused. His face was so close to John's that his breath, smelling of tea, brushed over John's skin.

"What do people normally say?"

"'Piss off,'" Sherlock smiled. John laughed, the tension dissipating from his body.

"So, did I miss something?" Sherlock asked, turning away and walking back to his laptop.

"Missed something?"

"Yes, did I get anything wrong?" John thought it through. Yes, he had missed something, missed the scars on his legs, and probably the slight arousal at Sherlock's commanding tone.

"Well, you didn't get anything _wrong_," he replied elusively. Sherlock raised his eyebrows, obviously not missing the intonation, but said nothing, simply turning back to his microscope.

"You can start tomorrow. Eight O'clock. Don't be late."

And with that, John was introduced into Sherlock Holmes' life.

...*...

For a while, things seemed to get better, to _normalize_. John had a job, and after a long talk with Clara, Harriet seemed to have sobered up and hadn't come home drunk for more than a week. She had begun going to AA meetings, which she had never done before, so a flicker of hope grew in both Clara and John that things might actually turn around for her.

Admittedly, working for Sherlock couldn't be called "normal", but John, for the first time since he arrived in London, felt that there was some hope for him, that he could function like a normal human being without drawing blood to feel good, or sane. When Clara asked him about the job, and about his employer, he didn't know quite what to say. Things that should be insults curled up like compliments in John's mind; Sherlock was mad, manic, antisocial, mercurial, condescending, but he was brilliant. He seemed to glow like people with too much energy and life did, like they would never be able to be erased.

The first day of work, John arrived ten minutes early, stepping carefully into the empty reception room. The sound of a violin threaded through the air, and John stood for a second, captured, before following the music to its source. He knocked on the door of one of the rooms he had passed the day before on his way to the lab, and the music was cut abruptly.

"Come in," Sherlock said from inside, and John opened the door to find an office. Sherlock was facing a wide window, tenuous light casting the man's long shadow. On his left was a large desk, cluttered with stacks of papers, books, a computer, and what seemed to be an actual skull, a macabre grin on its face. In the centre of the room there was a long coffee table which was a little less covered with miscellaneous items, around which sat a large, brown, leather couch and two worn looking armchairs. The walls were lined with bookcases filled to the brim with books; textbooks, mostly, it seemed, only interrupted by a lamp and a table with a kettle, a box of tea, and below that a small fridge. The wall behind the desk was bare, except for a strange, horned skull with earphones on. John didn't ask.

"Hello," John said steadily, leaning on his cane, his leg aching from the walk there. The damp London air was murder.

"Oh, it's you," Sherlock said, turning around.

"Were you expecting someone else?"

"No, no. What time is it?"

"Ten to. Ten to eight, that is."

"Ah, you're early. Quite obedient, aren't you? Or are things not better at home?" Sherlock asked, setting his violin down against the bookshelf. John pursed his lips a little.

"Are people usually late on their first day of work?" He asked placidly. Sherlock smiled at him slightly, shrugging. He was donned in a different but no less well-tailored suit. The purple shirt he wore was tight, and the buttons strained as Sherlock moved towards him. John tried not to stare. It was difficult.

"I'll show you where you'll mostly be working," Sherlock said, walking past him and into the hallway. John followed more slowly to a room opposite the office. Sherlock opened the door and as John caught sight of the interior he stopped, stunned. The room was a _mess_. No, mess was too soft a word. Everything was chaos, a hoarder's storage room on PCP. Stacks of files and books, shelves in complete disarray, open file cabinets spewing their contents on the floor. One of the walls was lined from top to bottom in wooden drawers, and John could only nightmare about what they held. The air smelt like musty, badly kept books.

"Is this what you meant when you said 'filing'? Because if so, that was a little misleading," John said. He picked up one of the items on the table. It was a mummified hand. He set it back down again.

"Oh, I'm sure you've seen worse," Sherlock said offhandedly. A fly flew past John's face.

"Yeah...I wouldn't be so sure." John knew that in normal circumstances berating your new boss on the cleanliness of their workspace wasn't the best idea, but John got the sense he wasn't dealing with a normal man.

"This is where I keep the information I gather on each case," Sherlock started, but John frowned, suddenly realizing something.

"Wait, case? I've just realized I have no idea what you do," he said, a little embarrassed. Who accepts a job assisting someone who they don't even know the profession of?

"I'm a consulting detective," Sherlock replied, as if that should mean something.

"A consulting detective? So, what, the police consult you?" Sherlock snorted.

"It's not as if they don't need the help."

"But the police don't consult amateurs," John said, and Sherlock turned to look at him sharply from where he had been fiddling with some files. There was a pause.

"How _is_ your alcoholic...sister?" He asked. John clenched his teeth. That had been a low blow, but he got the point, remembering Sherlock's deductions the day before.

"Go on," he bit out, and Sherlock smiled at him smugly. The tosser.

"As I was saying, this is where I keep the data I collect on the cases. I don't only help the police, I do some freelance work, so there is quite a variety here. I want it ordered. I will give you a very specific classification index I want you to follow. Don't mess it up," Sherlock instructed, his voice going hard.

"Yes, it would be quite a shame if all this were messed up," John said, looking at the mess again. It just shouldn't have been possible to fit so much stuff in one room.

"I'm serious, John," Sherlock said, taking a sudden step forward and grabbing the collar of John's shirt. John stilled, leaning back slightly, unprepared by the look in Sherlock's eyes. It was dark, and not just in colour. There was something more there.

"Ok. I won't mess it up," John said quietly. After a moment Sherlock smiled, smoothing down the collar, his whole demeanour changing, relaxing.

"Good," Sherlock said. "Come along, I'll show you how to deal with the incoming, freelance cases."

John followed, realizing his leg had stopped aching.

His heart was beating a little faster.


	2. Chapter 2

**On Your Knees**

**Chapter Two**

The work, though it could be categorized as 'office work' was difficult and entertaining. John spent a large portion of his day organizing what he had termed the Mess Room, though Sherlock termed it the Evidence Room. A fraction of his time was occupied with assisting Sherlock with God knows what in the lab, but John's favourite task was helping him with the customers that arrived with a plethora of different cases for Sherlock. Most of them were rejected with just a look, which left John to appease whoever had arrived seeking help. Others were listened to, and then rejected. Only a small fraction were deemed interesting (read: not mind-numbingly tedious) for Sherlock to engage in. Sometimes Sherlock would solve them on the spot in a quick, manic tirade, as both the customer and John sat, stunned and awed. Other times Sherlock would put on his coat rather dramatically and leave with the customer with nary a word directed at John who, with a sigh, went back to the Mess Room to continue working. For the first week, Sherlock was pleasant, even considerate, which surprised John, especially considering he often made mistakes when organizing the evidence into its proper place. The index given to John to do so was, quite frankly, beyond comprehension. Sherlock had given him a thick, intimidating, self-made manual on how he wanted everything ordered, with large sections categorized under types of cases, such as murders, robberies, kidnappings, etc. Each section was broken down further in a number of cross-referenced specifics, and it was all written in a dry manner that was filled with medical and scientific jargon which John often had to Google to understand. Sherlock had the uncanny knack of zeroing on any mistake, but mostly he would pull the file or evidence out, set it before John, and say "Wrong," before walking away. Though the work may have sounded boring on paper, John was challenged by it, and by Sherlock's presence. There was something about the man that made everything a little more exciting, made John want to impress him, to, though he would never catch up to Sherlock, at least not lag too far behind.

This easy work relationship, however, did not last.

It was the second Monday since he had met Sherlock, and John was in the lab, following Sherlock's instruction whilst trying to learn the procedure as best he could. He was a quick study, and it didn't take much time for the two men to fall into a good rhythm, so that John could handle the experiment with little instruction. As Sherlock threw him an appreciative look it annoyed John a little how much the other man's approval pleased him, but Sherlock's mind was so quick and sharp that for him to deem you above the norm was a worthy compliment, and John wasn't so arrogant as to deny that fact.

"We'll have to see which of these beakers are now cool enough to touch, or if Ms. Lenton was lying about being in the research lab at the time of the murder. Pass me the-"

"Should I hold them, see if any burn?" John asked, and Sherlock raised his head to look at him slowly. There was a pause in which Sherlock seemed to see straight through John's words and into something deeper.

"Yes, do that," Sherlock replied. Without hesitation, John grabbed the first beaker. It scalded his skin, but he held onto it for a moment before setting it down carefully.

"Too hot," he said.

"Did it burn you?"

"Yes."

"Let me see." John held his hand out, palm upright, and Sherlock took his bare wrist, the sleeves of John's jumper rolled up to his elbows. Sherlock would be able to feel his elevated pulse, John thought, but Sherlock simply inspected the skin before letting the hand drop.

"Next one," Sherlock ordered, and John followed. The second one was also too hot, and by the third John's skin was raw and flushed.

"Switch hands," Sherlock said, and his voice was low, dark. Something clenched in the pit of John's stomach, and he set his cane aside to grab the next beaker with his right hand.

"This one is ok," John said, and the liquid sloshed slightly as he shifted.

"Try the other two." The next one was incredibly hot, and John winced as it burned his hand.

"That one is untouchable," John said, flexing his fingers, feeling the sensitized skin sting.

"And yet you touched it," Sherlock said, looking at John steadily.

"Well, yes, but-"

"Next one," Sherlock said shortly. John fought off the urge to roll his eyes and did as he was told. That one, too, was too hot, but John held it, looking into Sherlock's eyes in some kind of warped defiance, before setting it back down. Without a word, Sherlock grabbed John's wrist, lifting the hand close to his face. His thumb traced the vein under John's skin, and John couldn't help but shiver slightly. Sherlock lifted his eyes to look at John and for a moment they stood there, connected by pulsing skin, before Sherlock let go, stepping back slightly.

"Very good, John," he said softly, and John felt a sudden rush, a release of some hidden element.

"Pass me the thermometer," Sherlock instructed, turning back to the beakers, reheating them to their initial temperature. John frowned.

"But I just-"

"I said pass me the thermometer. And you can go back to the Evidence Room, you haven't progressed there at all," Sherlock said shortly. John opened his mouth to protest but Sherlock threw him a quelling look, his pale eyes cutting through whatever it was that John was about to say.

"Fine," John replied instead, and after setting the thermometer down beside Sherlock, who didn't even look at him, went back to the Mess Room. He stood there for a seconds, feeling as if he had missed something, though the feeling wasn't exactly uncommon around Sherlock.

It was two hours later that he realized he had left his cane in the lab.

...*...

That day seemed to flick a switch in Sherlock. He became increasingly acidic, constantly giving John impossible tasks, seemingly for the sole purpose of having something to berate him with when the results weren't up to his ridiculous standards. The days were filled with cutting remarks; nothing John did was good enough, _he _wasn't good enough, and Sherlock made a play of showing him how displeasing that was. Even the customers who arrived were treated with a level of cruel dismissal that was unusual even for Sherlock, who seemed to be searching for some kind of impossible entertainment, stimulation. How he managed to make any money at all was beyond John.

John, meanwhile, was caught in a battle between being frustrated with Sherlock and wanting to please him. He would dig the palms of his hands into the sharp edges of the file cabinets to focus, to gain some control, but it seemed to be robbed by Sherlock, his thunderous presence. Even when John did something right, Sherlock would choose that exact instance to pay absolutely no attention to him. The whole thing was maddening and yet, somehow, it made him feel more determined, more alive. He hadn't turned to his wooden box since meeting Sherlock, and the feeling was much like being in the battlefield; fighting your survival instincts to follow the orders of some madman above you.

Eventually, however, John was worn thin by Sherlock's inexplicable attitude. He was sitting at the desk in the reception room, going through potential cases and picking out the ones he knew would bore Sherlock the least, when said devil slammed a file in front of John, bending down so that his lips were right beside John's ear.

"You filed these wrong, _again_," he hissed. John jumped, and then clenched his fists in anger.

"Maybe if your manual didn't change every two hours they would be filed correctly," he bit out. Sherlock moved to the side, his hand clutching at the opposite chair arm so that John was barred inside the seat. Sherlock bent low, his face right beside John's, who turned to look at him defiantly.

"You work for _me_. I tell you how to do things, and you do them. Or are you too dull to comprehend even that?" Sherlock asked quietly. John bit the inside of his cheek, hard, feeling some release at the sudden pain, at the suggestion of blood on his tongue. Sherlock's eyes narrowed.

"Stop that," he said, his voice a little hoarse. John unclenched his teeth, a little surprised.

"Stop what?" He asked quietly.

"You know what."

"Sherlock-"

"Stop!" Sherlock shouted, slamming his hand against the desk. The noise was explosive, it charged the air, John's skin, so that the hairs on his arms stood on end. He breathed a little heavily, feeling something close to fear.

On a summer day when John had been ten, his family and him had gone to spend the day at the beach. When the sun was at its highest, John had decided to swim out at sea, trying to teach a rock in the distance. The tide had been strong and as he got farther and farther from land, and the water got deeper and darker, John had gotten increasingly afraid. His childish imagination had conjured the sharp edges of the teeth and fins of great white sharks, the pulling tentacles of giant squids, and he had turned back, the salty water stinging his throat as he gasped for breath. But as he looked at the distant dots on the sand, his sister, his dad, he remembered all the fantasy books he so liked to read; all the heroes, the adventures, and how he longed to be part of one, to be taken to some far away land to defeat demons and monsters. And yet, he thought as he treaded water, he couldn't even swim to a rock out at sea? It was pathetic. Suddenly, the fear had become a vicious motivator, a representation of something else, of escape. John had turned around again and when he reached the rock his heart was in his throat, racing, and not just from the exhaustion. That thrill, that achievement, as he surveyed the distance between him and the hot, cruel land, had never been forgotten. It had become a deep and important part of him that would mark the man he was to become.

As he looked at Sherlock, his lips a bare two inches from his, he felt that same sort of thrill. Like he was part of something bigger than the moment. John lowered his eyes. He was not as dull as Sherlock suggested. He could read the darkness in the other man's eyes.

"Fine," John said softly. He felt Sherlock exhale slightly.

"You'll file them in their proper place?"

"Yes. _Sir_." John could practically _feel_ Sherlock's voice hitch at the submissive term.

"Good," Sherlock replied after a long pause, his voice strangled, before leaving. John smiled.

The thing about control that people didn't seem to realise was that, when voluntarily given, a submissive person holds just as much over the dominant as the other way around.

It was all about balance.

...*...

"John?" Clara's soft voice seemed to come out of nowhere, and John jumped, scalding his fingers with tea as the liquid sloshed over the rim of the cup. "Oh God, sorry! I didn't mean to startle you. Here," she said, hurrying over and handing him a tea towel.

"It's ok, I just wasn't expecting you to be up so early," he smiled, taking the cloth from her fingers and wiping himself down. When he was done he looked up at Clara and frowned at what he saw. The reason for her appearance so early in the morning was apparent; she hadn't gone to sleep. Her hair was dishevelled, as if she had been constantly running her hands through it, and her eyes and face were worn and tired.

"Clara...what's happened?" John asked quietly, already knowing the reason for her current state. Anxiety tightened his chest.

"Harriet...she...I haven't seen her since yesterday morning. I have no idea where she is, she won't answer her phone," Clara said, her voice trembling. John hobbled slightly towards her, putting his arms around her slim frame. She was trembling. He closed his eyes and cursed his sister as Clara started crying quietly.

"I...Oh God, I'm so stupid. I thought, I really thought that this time...that maybe, for me...but she isn't going to change, is she? She's never going to give it up. She loves it more than she loves me. More than she loves anything," she said quietly. John tightened his arms around her before pulling her away to look into her tear-brightened eyes.

"Hey, don't say that. You aren't stupid and this, Harriet...it isn't about love. She loves you, but she depends on the alcohol. You can't compare it. One can't cancel the other out, I know it seems that should be the case but...it just isn't. The drinking...it's part of who she is. If anything, she doesn't love _herself_ enough to give it up," John said softly. At that, Clara started to cry harder, burying her face in her hands, and John pulled her close again, feeling near tears himself. As difficult as his sister could be, he hated seeing Harriet destroy herself, destroy the things she loved. The feeling of not being able to help a person he loved, his own family, created a deep, powerless despair inside him. Neither Harriet nor Clara deserved this, but since when had life ever been fair?

For minutes they simply stood, tangled, in the kitchen, the mug of tea cooling besides them. John could feel the ache in his leg intensifying, but he didn't pull away, didn't move, couldn't. He was trapped in this whole affair.

"I'm sorry, I'm probably making you late for work," Clara said eventually, pulling away.

"It's fine, Clara, work can wait. I'm just glad I was here, that you weren't alone. I can call Sherlock, stay for the day," he offered, but Clara shook her head, smiling a watery smile.

"No, no, go. I have a shift later anyway, and I need the distraction. I can sort myself out."

"Clara..."

"John. Really, I'm fine, I just needed a little cry, is all. I'll be fine. I promise," she said, pushing John away tenderly. John sighed, but nodded, and watched silently as Clara went up to the bathroom, no doubt to take a long, cleansing shower to wash the salt from her wounds. John leaned on the kitchen counter, clutching his leg. The anxiety was making it hard to breathe, and he thought about the wooden box inside his wardrobe. Without thinking too much about it he went upstairs and put it in his bag before leaving. Sherlock wouldn't search his things, he knew; the man was arrogant enough to believe there was nothing John could hide in a box that Sherlock couldn't deduce by looking at him.

John could only hope Sherlock, for once, was wrong.

...*...

John could barely concentrate. He had called Clara at two, when she had a break, who told him she still hadn't heard from Harriet, whose phone was now turned off or signaless, which was unusual. He kept imagining Harriet passed out on the street, getting soaked by the fall rain that fell outside. His leg was aching, his hand trembling, and the familiar feeling of anxiety was clogging his throat, the taste of a sea storm, salt and coarse sand.

"Yes, I understand, but-" John was interrupted once again by the angry customer on the other end of the phone, who had been turned away the day before, insisting on speaking with Sherlock with increasingly foul language. John was quickly developing a headache when the reception door opened. He looked up to see a stunning woman dressed far too elegantly step inside. She was exceedingly slim, with cheekbones that could rival Sherlock's. He motioned for her to take a seat but she ignored him, waking up to the desk John was sitting behind.

"My name is Irene Adler, I'm here to see Sherlock," she said imploringly. John covered the mouth of the phone.

"Yes, take a seat, I'll tell him you have arrived if you just give me a moment," John said through the screaming in his ear.

"I'll just go through, shall I?" She said, ignoring him and moving towards the hallway. John put a hand out, trying to stop her.

"Wait, I'll just-"

"Hello? _Hello? _Are you listening to me!?" The man down the phone was saying.

"Yes, sir, I've been listening to you for the past fifteen minutes, if you would just calm down and-"

"Submissive," the woman snorted above him, and John looked up at her amused, almost disdainful expression.

"Sir, please just-"

"I want my case solved! Tell Holmes I won't take no for an answer!" The customer shouted as Irene chuckled and moved towards the hallway again. John closed his eyes for an instant, feeling his anger boil over the edge.

"Sir, shut up. Mr. Holmes is not _required_ to solve your case, and no amount of petulance on your part is going to change that! Now suck it up and seek help elsewhere! Have a good day!" John bit out, slamming the phone down.

"Ms. Adler, _please_ sit down. I'll go inform Sherlock of your presence," John said, standing up to block the woman's path. She raised an eyebrow, a dark smile curling her red lips.

"Hmm...interesting," she said, sounding far too much like Sherlock for comfort, but did as he asked, sitting on the couch smoothly and crossing her legs, her arms strategically placed over her breasts as if she were naked. John sighed and went into the hallway. When it didn't include Sherlock's deductions he hated working in customer service; people were insane.

"Sherlock, there's a woman here to see you, an-"

"Irene Adler. Yes, tell her I'm busy," Sherlock said, who was lying down on his couch, looking as far from busy as one could look. John clenched his jaw.

"Seriously? Can't you spare a moment?"

"No, John, I cannot. Tell Ms. Adler she can find what she's looking for somewhere else," Sherlock said, closing his eyes and pressing his hands, palm-to-palm, against his lips in what John knew was his "thinking pose". John sighed and shut the door behind him, returning to the reception room with some trepidation.

"I'm sorry Ms. Adler but Sherlock is-"

"Lying on his couch, most likely," Irene said, smirking as John tried to keep his expression neutral. "And all I wanted was a little dinner," she mused. John frowned.

"A bit early for dinner, isn't it?" He asked, but the woman only smiled.

"You're Sherlock's new assistant, then? He does go through them quickly, but I have a feeling you'll last," she said instead.

"Uh, thank you?" He said.

"You should be careful, pet, Sherlock doesn't take any prisoners. He'll eat you right up, if you let him. Then again, some people like that. I know I did," she smirked, and John was about to ask her to elaborate when the phone rang again. He glanced at it, and then at Irene, deciding to drop it.

"Yeah, thanks," he said, limping to the phone. Irene got to her feet as he picked it up with a resigned _Hello?_.

"J-John?" a hoarse voice said, and John's heart leaped in his chest.

"Harriet! Harriet, where are you? Are you ok?" He asked quickly, clutching the phone.

"I'm...a pay phone...this was the only number I had on me. Where am I?" Harriet said, clearly still drunk, but at least she was awake, alive.

"Harriet, look around and tell me where you-" but he was cut off as Irene suddenly pushed the coat rack over and proceeded to grind the heel of her stiletto into Sherlock's coat.

"Tell him to see me next time, or I'll be sticking the heel of my shoe somewhere else," she said, before striding out of the room. John gaped for a second. Was Sherlock's insanity contagious, or what? He shook his head, snapping out of it, and pressed the phone back to his ear.

"Harriet?" He asked, but no one replied on the other line. John could hear the muffled sounds of traffic, but little else. "Harriet? _Harriet?" _He repeated, but the line went dead. John slammed the phone down, despair thick in his mouth.

"Fuck. _Fuck_." He tried the call-back button, but no one answered. He listened to the phone ring until he was dizzy with the noise. Giving up, he put his head in his hands.

Who was he fooling? Things weren't going to get better. He couldn't help himself any more than Harriet could. They were all trapped in their addictions, caged with the demons they had birthed. Things didn't just change, unless it was for the worse.

The feeling that overtook him was achingly familiar. A deep sort of helplessness which made him feel so utterly lost, so alone. Ever since he was a little boy he had felt there was something missing inside him, something broken, and essential fragment of being that everybody else seemed to posses. This easy ability to be content, to simply live and get on with things, without needing something as dark and terrible as a war to feel like you are worth something. His skin felt like it didn't fit, like it had never fit, like he had to struggle against himself just to try and function. He felt, very simply, _wrong_. There was something wrong with him, and the isolation that bred was drowning him.

How could he hope to ever help his sister if he couldn't even help himself?

His throat was clenched, his heart racing, and he opened the drawer clumsily, rattling the desk, pulling out the wooden box he had stuffed there earlier. His head was a mess of noise and white, of nothing, just the cruel, piercing presence of anxiety haunting him. He limped as quickly as he could to the toilet and locked the door behind him, going straight to close the lid of the toilet. He unbuttoned and unzipped his trousers, pulling them down to his knees, before sitting down on the toilet lid. He unrolled some toilet paper and stuffed it under his leg before opening the box, more slowly now, sinking into the ritual. He chose a razor this time, simple and rectangular, and without much preamble sunk it into his inner thigh. The sharpened edge split the skin, a sharp, ringing pain electrifying him. He let out a hard breath, but didn't stop, drawing a long line, as far as he dared. When he lifted his hand he barely gave himself a few second before doing it again, the skin giving way, tender underneath, severed nerves screaming. John tried to breathe through his nose; the last thing he wanted was Sherlock to bang on the door asking him what he was up to, panting in the loo. The pain overtook his mind. This was something that made sense; just a physical reaction, apart from the turmoil within. Emotions were complicated and impossible to kill, but physical pain was simple. He would watch the cuts close and scar; at least something in him could heal.

"John?" Sherlock called from outside, and John jumped, almost slicing himself too deeply. He grabbed the toilet paper and pressed it against his thigh. The fibres caught on his open skin and stung.

"I-I'm in the toilet! I'll be out in a second!" He blundered, grabbing the iodine and quickly applying some before taping the wounds shut as best he could with the panic making both his hands shake. He cleaned everything, put it in its place, and pulled his trousers up, making sure to zip them. The cuts screamed at him as he got up, and the pain was all he had. He checked to make sure Sherlock wasn't in the hallway before limping quickly to his desk and hiding the wooden box, the cuts stretching with each step. When he was outside the door of Sherlock's office he leaned on his cane, the head digging into his palm, and took a deep breath. He concentrated on the physical pain. Everything else was secondary.

"Did you want something?" John said as he opened the door. Sherlock was behind the desk, shuffling through papers.

"Yes, go to the Evidence Room and get me..." He trailed off and John's heart stopped as Sherlock zeroed in on John's stinging thigh. _How could he know?_ John began to panic, but tried to keep it off his face.

"You're bleeding," Sherlock said in a quiet, deadly voice. John looked down. There were two spots of blood staining his jeans, so small that a more unobservant person could have easily missed them and, in that moment, John cursed Sherlock's quick sight.

"Ah...I had a little accident..." He looked at Sherlock's eyes, now looking at his, and knew there wasn't a hope in hell for Sherlock not to know his secret. The bottom of his stomach dropped, his palms sweaty. What could he possibly say to explain this away? There was an incredibly long pause as Sherlock simply looked at him before he pressed his palms together, his elbows on the table.

"Go clean yourself up and get me the evidence box for case M: 362C," Sherlock said. John let out a breath, nodding, and stepped out immediately. Once outside he leaned against the wall, trying to slow down his racing heart.

This couldn't be good.

...*...

Mary was nice. There really wasn't a word more apt to describe her. She was pretty, with a petite frame and her dark hair cut in a cute bob. Her voice was pleasant, her laugh melodic, she smelt soft and fragrant, she was smart but not condescending, funny but not a limelight hogger. All in all, a catch. John should count himself lucky to have scored a date with a woman like her and yet, as he sat on the other side of the table in the quaint little restaurant he had chosen, their third date so far, his heart simply wasn't in it.

Things had settled somewhat at home since his sister's escapade. Harriet promised that it was just a relapse, that her sponsor at AA said it was normal, that she was working through it, that it wouldn't happen again, but the words sounded empty to Clara and John. The long hours of worrying and, finally, her shamefaced return, hung over their heads like a storm promising cloud. There hadn't even been a fight; Clara had taken one look at her wife, said, "I'm glad you're home safe," and gone to her room, closing the door behind her. Harriet had stood there, looking completely wrecked, broken, and John had felt a sudden love for her. As much as he hated what she was doing, he empathised with her. How could he judge her, after all? They seemed to be cut from a very similar cloth. He had helped her into the shower, like when they were kids and she got home to a negligent father after another fight at school, and the only one who had been there was John, his responsibility to pick up the pieces even though he was younger. And he hadn't really minded; it was better to feel that you could do something to help than simply watch someone he loved dissolve, like his mother, like his father.

Things with Sherlock were just as tense. The other man didn't speak another word of _the incident_, but John had no doubt that he would, eventually. Sherlock wasn't one to leave sleeping dogs to rest; he was more the type to incite a hound, just to analyse its existence. John often felt he and Sherlock were moving through a dangerous dance, that there was something hidden below the surface of their interaction, but he didn't think much on what that was, or even if he wanted it revealed.

Instead, he was trying to bury himself in normalcy, in something as nice and unthreatening as Mary. He knew that nobody was prefect, that Mary would have her faults, but they would be normal flaws; maybe she would be untidy around the house, or vote for the opposite political party, or be close-minded about some issues John felt strongly about, or adverse to surprises and adventure. They would be workable issues, unlike John's oscillation between needing to cut himself and feeling regret and despair at having to do so.

Therefore as they stepped out of the restaurant, wrapped up in thick coats to ward off the cold, John put his arm around Mary's waist and she leaned into him, smiling.

"That was really nice, John. How do you find all these great places? I've been living here forever and I barely know any good places to eat! Apart from cheap takeaway that is," Mary was saying, laughing slightly. John smiled as they walked towards a main road to hail a cab.

"It's one of my many gifts," he joked.

"Oh, really? And how many of those do you have, exactly? Because I haven't seen another one yet," she teased, kissing him on the cheek.

"Rude!" he laughed. "I'm also a very fast typist, I'll have you know."

"Oh, you're good with your fingers? Well, now, that _is_ a gift," she said, laughing as John squeezed and ticked her slightly through her coat. "Stop!" she said, dissolving into giggles, and John pressed his mouth against her hair.

He could do this. He could be normal.

It was at that moment that he saw him. His figure was so familiar that he seemed to stand out, even in the bustling London street. His coat flapped around him slightly in the wind, the collar pulled up, the dark colour of the material a stark contrast against his pale cheekbones.

"Sherlock?" he said, but the man had already turned around, getting into the cab that rumbled to a stop beside him. With a misty cloud of car fumes he disappeared into the traffic.

"Do you know him?" Mary asked, and John realized he had stopped walking. There was a sort of tight sickness at the pit of his stomach. He felt unsettled at the sight of Sherlock outside work, as if, until then, his presence had been contained there, controlled, but now was a loose, unpredictable creature.

"Uh...yeah, he's my boss," John said, picking up the pace again.

"Well, he's quite handsome!" Mary teased. For a moment, John was stuck for a response.

Yes. He was quite handsome, wasn't he? More than that, even. He was magnetic.

"Oi! How can you say that, with such a perfect male specimen in your arms," John said, recuperating, trying to shake off the unpleasant feeling that had gotten hold of him. He almost felt...guilty. But that was ridiculous.

"Oh, well, he's nothing compared to you," Mary said, oblivious to John's tangled mind. John smiled down at her, and stopped to kiss her on the lips; a soft, beginning-of-a-relationship kiss. Mary melted against him. He liked that about her, the way she didn't mind public displays of affection.

Would Sherlock be like that? He honestly had no idea, the man was such an enigma at times.

"Well," Mary breathed as they parted. "I should compliment other men more often, if that's the reaction I get." She was smiling up at him with such a trusting face, John felt a sudden pang of self-hatred. This woman, she was far too good for him.

They continued walking down the street, prolonging their date, and John tried to enjoy it, tried to ignore the feeling that something was missing, that, as nice as Mary seemed, she just wasn't right for him.

...*...

Sherlock was in a right state. His manic side was in hide tide, flooding the office with a constant series of rants, punctuated by deep, troubled silences, from which he would wake with a "find me a case, John!", as if John had the power to materialize entertainment from thin air. Amidst this madness, John tried to continue sorting through the Mess Room, despite Sherlock's clockwork interruptions, which would always involve him berating John for some mistake or other. He head Sherlock say "wrong" so many times in such a short space that the man might as well have recorded himself and left the word on a loop as a delightful soundtrack for John's working day.

"Tea, John!" Sherlock's voice shouted from his office, and John tried to keep his temper. He was being paid for this, at least.

He'd have to be _completely_ mad to do it for free.

John limped into the office, going straight to the tea table and clicking the kettle on, already half-filled with probably stale water, but Sherlock would just have to suck it up. John leaned his cane on the table and bent down to open the mini fridge, but closed it immediately.

"Sherlock. There's a head in the fridge."

"Well done, John. I see now why I keep you around," Sherlock drawled. John looked at him over his shoulder.

"Why is there a head in the fridge?" John tried to say patiently.

"Experiment."

"Isn't there a cooler in the lab?"

"It's full."

"With what?"

"With bees! What does it matter? They're _my_ fridges, I can fill them with what I like!" Sherlock replied petulantly. John closed his eyes in a, _the Lord is testing me_ sort of way. He turned away and got on his knees, still wondering how it could be possible that the other fridge was filled with _bees_ of all things. What, did Sherlock have them for a snack? John smiled to himself; he could actually picture his reptilian boss doing just that, probably whilst prancing around the room exclaiming _it's for an experiment, John!_

"Why are you laughing?" Sherlock said from behind his desk. John muffled his chuckles.

"I'm not laughing, I have something in my throat," he lied, opening the fridge once again to investigate exactly what was in there. The head gaped back morbidly at him.

God, this job was bizarre. John leaned forwards, one hand on the floor, his ass in the air, and shifted through the contents of the fridge with care, wishing he had a biohazard suit on. There was a bag filled with severed fingers. Lovely.

The water boiled noisily above him for a second before the kettle clicked off, and John pulled out the milk, getting back on his feet. He prepared the tea, put away the milk ,and took the mug to Sherlock's desk. Sherlock was staring at him intently, and John hesitated for a moment before setting the tea down on his desk, avoiding the papers there. His stomach clenched a little at the shift in mood. Most of the time he just had no idea what his boss was thinking.

"Uh...I have an idea for how you could get more cases," John started. Sherlock raised his eyebrows, but motioned for him to go on. John cleared his throat. "Well, I've been on your website-"

"The Science of Deduction," said Sherlock in a low voice.

"Yeah. That. It's...interesting. But a bit dry."

"Dry?" Sherlock snorted.

"Yeah. I don't think you're going to get many costumers by listing different types of tobacco."

"That list has helped me in more than a few cases, John."

"Sure, I don't doubt it, but that's not really the point. I'm just saying, if your website were a little more...layman friendly, maybe you would get more cases to choose from."

"And what exactly do you suggest to make it more _layman_ friendly?" Sherlock asked, stressing the word "layman" as if it were a particularly unpleasant variety of fungus.

"Well, how about writing up some of your cases? What you do, how you did it. You know, show off your skills. If people are impressed they'll want to hire your services."

"And what makes you think I want to _impress_ anyone?" Sherlock said, offended. _Maybe the way that you keep showing off to me? _John thought, but kept it to himself.

"I don't, but it might bring in some interesting cases," he shrugged.

"Absolutely ridiculous. And who do you suggests writes up all these cases, me? _You? _So you can inflict your opinions on the world?" Sherlock said derisively, and John chewed on his tongue.

"It was just an idea," he bit out. "I'll go back to the Evidence Room now, if you don't mind."

"You do that. And try not to mess everything up, though I can see that's an awful struggle for you!" Sherlock called after him as John left the room. John clenched his fist until his nails were biting into his palm, leaving the imprints of moons on his skin.

He wondered why quitting never even crossed his mind as a possibility.

...*...

The day didn't seem to be getting any better. Sherlock seemed to be on a roll, and all he was trampling was John. As the end of the day neared John could feel the threads keeping him together fray, ready to snap. It was therefore with some trepidation that John stepped into the office as Sherlock, with a smooth, overly calm voice, called him over the intercom.

"Yes?" John asked as he stepped once again inside the office. Sherlock stood before the window, his back to him.

"Shut the door," he said, and John stood there a moment before doing so slowly.

"Lock it," Sherlock instructed.

"Why?"

"Lock. It." John's hand was steady as he did so. The click of the lock was ominously loud in the silent room. "Come here," Sherlock said, and John did so, stopping in the middle of the room.

"Do you see what's on my desk?" Sherlock asked quietly, still not facing John, who looked over. He recognised the booklet, open near the middle, on the wooden surface.

"Yes, it's the manual for the Evidence Room," John replied. At this, Sherlock did turn, his eyes dark, expression unfathomable.

"Yes. The manual you seem to have so much trouble following."

"Well-"

"Be quiet," Sherlock said, and John shut his mouth. His heart started beating faster. Something was going to happen. He didn't know what, exactly, but John had learned to recognise a danger zone when he saw it. "I want you to go over to the desk and put your hands, palms down, on either side of the manual," Sherlock said. John frowned.

"What f-"

"Don't talk. Just do it." For a moment John just stood there, looking back at Sherlock, at his pale face, his long lines. He felt, knew, that if he did as was asked, he would be giving Sherlock something. Some kind of control, a piece of him. Could he trust Sherlock?

Slowly, he walked over to the desk, leaning the cane on it, before setting his hands on either side of the manual. The surface of the desk was smooth and cool.

"Now lean down so your face is above the book, looking down at it," Sherlock said, his voice soft, commanding. John looked at him before following the instructions. For a moment there was complete stillness, John doubled over the desk, Sherlock just a smudge of black at the corner of his eyes, before it disappeared.

"Read what it says on the page," Sherlock said from behind him. John licked his lips. His mouth was so dry he could hardly swallow. The sound of his heart was filling his head.

"Section Three: Robberies. R:01, Stolen possessions. R01A, Jewell-"

_**Smack.**_

The hit, despite everything, took John completely off guard. The open palm of Sherlock's long hand had come down to slam against John's backside, the sound an electrifying crack, electrifying the air, making it unbearable to breathe. John tried to gather some oxygen in his lungs but they were shut tight. He blinked at the paper, holding himself completely still. He didn't dare look back at Sherlock. What was happening? What the hell was happening?

"Keep reading," Sherlock said, and his voice was bred from shadows. John licked his lips again. He could hardly think.

"R01A, Jewellery: RS01: Inheritance, RS01A, Sentimental value worth under a hundred-" Sherlock smacked John's ass again in the same spot, and the sting was more pronounced now. John couldn't help but let a small gasp escape at the brutal force of the hit, his hands sliding ever so slightly on the desk.

"Read," Sherlock commanded. John's mind was completely blank, there was only the paper in front of him, Sherlock behind him, and the point that would connect them at each slap.

"Under a hundred pounds, RS- _ah!_- RS01B, Sentimental value worth between a hundred a-and five hundred pounds," John continued, trying to keep his eyes open, focused, to not rest his forehead down on the desk and just _take it_. There wasn't a single thought in his mind, just the sensation of Sherlock's hand against him through his thin work trousers, the pain mounting as Sherlock, more quickly now, continued to slap him, changing cheeks when it pleased him, or hitting the same spot over and over until the pain was blinding. John's sweaty palms continued to slide against the desk and he tried adjust himself. He never once looked back, knowing, somehow, that it was forbidden, and he tried to imagine Sherlock's face, his expression, but came up blank. He had no idea what was passing through the other man's mind, but he could hear his slightly harsh breathing, though it wasn't nearly as hoarse as John's. Throughout it all John continued reading, section after section under "Robberies", his voice becoming more strangled, punctuated by small gasps and cries he was unable to muffle.

Finally, John reached the end of the page, and Sherlock stopped. For a long moment John kept still, panting against the manual. He could hear the soft rustling of clothing as Sherlock moved, and suddenly he could see the other man as he sat in front of John on the desk chair. He looked completely calm and composed, but John could see the red, flushed skin of his palm. The sight made something hum and clench inside John, a deep, dark curl of lust.

"You can go an re-organize box R:76 now. I trust you'll do adequately," Sherlock said, his voice casual, as if he hadn't just spanked his employee in his office, as if said employee wasn't still bend over his desk with a stringing backside. John didn't even know what to say, what to _think_. He looked at Sherlock for a few long seconds before straightening up. He made a small sound as the pain flared for a second before subsiding to a stringing ache, and Sherlock's eyes flickered towards him for less than a second, a piercing glance, before moving away.

"I...Ok," John said numbly, and turned around. He got to the middle of the room before Sherlock called out,

"Your cane, John." John stumbled slightly. That soft, low voice. It was going to be the death of him. He retrieved his cane, using it out of sheer habit, because the pain in his leg had disappeared, as if transferred to other, more Sherlockian places. Sherlock was typing away at his computer, ignoring him and, after a slight pause, John left. Instead of going to the Mess Room he went to the toilet, locking the door behind him. He lowered his trousers, turning around to see his ass in the mirror. It was bright red, and in some places the lines left by Sherlock's long fingers were obvious, a telling mark. John was hard, but he didn't dare toss off in the loo. Somehow, ridiculously, he felt he needed Sherlock's permission first. John buttoned his trousers up and splashed cold water on his face, leaning on the sink, staring at his eyes. His pupils were blown wide. His heart was still racing. He felt alive, the remnants of a battle, adrenaline in every drop of his blood. He felt as if he had just discovered some essential part of himself, and wasn't it fitting that Sherlock had seen it before him?

When he went back to the Mess Room he reorganized box R:76 without making a single mistake.


	3. Chapter 3

**On Your Knees**

**Chapter Three**

It was with some guilt that John sat beside Mary in the little cafe he was spending his lunch break in. He couldn't even imagine her face if he told her what had happened in Sherlock's office the day before. Or Clara's, or Harriet's, or anybody's for that matter. They would probably tell him it was wrong, that he should file a sexual harassment lawsuit, but that was the farthest thing from John's mind. The truth was that the episode wasn't something that had been done to him; it was something that he had let happen, and there was a crucial difference between the two. John could have stopped Sherlock at any moment, could have turned around and punched him and stormed out and never seen the other man again, except maybe like a phantom in the night, haunting his dreams like the war. But he hadn't. It hadn't felt wrong, it had been...perfect.

Mary was telling him some anecdote from work, and John smiled and nodded along, but his mind was somewhere else. He wondered if it would happen again. Somehow he knew that wasn't exactly Sherlock's first time spanking someone in his office; he had seemed quiet adept at it. That thought caused a clench of jealousy to compress his chest, which was ridiculous, he knew, but he couldn't help it.

He wanted to be the only one. He wanted Sherlock to be...

He couldn't finish the thought. It was too much, too soon.

"Can you believe it?" Mary was saying, and John laughed, shaking his head.

"That's mental. The things you get yourself into," John joked, and smiled at the irony of the sentence.

"Oh yes, I'm just a bucket full of trouble. You should watch out, you know, or you'll get caught up in my madness," Mary grinned, dabbing her lips with a napkin. John just shook his head again, stroking her hair back behind her ear. Mary's smile softened and she learned a little into his hand. The guilt inside John flared for a moment before he pushed it back down.

What else could he do but at least try and pretend he was normal?

"I should probably head back before Sherlock destroys the place," John said, rolling up his rubbish in a tight ball. Mary nodded, and she stood up with him as they put their coats on.

"Your boss sounds like a bit of a nightmare," she commented as they stepped outside. John stuffed his hands in his pockets and Mary laced an arm though his as they started walking.

"No, he's...well, yes, he can be a bit difficult, but it's worth it. I can even understand it, he's just...well, he's brilliant, really. I've never met anybody like him," John replied. His mind conjured up Sherlock's dark chocolate voice as he deduced, as he ordered, and a small shiver ran down his spine.

"Well, I hope you two are very happy together," Mary said, and John tried not to choke on his own spit.

"N-no, I mean, haha, yeah right," he stuttered, and Mary looked up at him curiously. John rolled his eyes. "I'll be sure to invite you to the wedding," he joked, even though his throat felt a little tight. Mary elbowed him in the ribs before laughing, and they continued on their way, the space between them filled with amicable conversation.

When John reached the office alone he opened the front door to be met with complete silence, which wasn't unusual, but put him on edge anyways. Sherlock had barely talked to him all day, not even to check up on his work, and John wondered what was going through the man's mind. Had the previous day's activities phased him at all, or was it all par for the course in his little world? Frankly, John hoped it had affected Sherlock like it had affected him. He couldn't stand the thought that what had happened had inevitably changed something in John forever, had released an oppressed, denied side of him, that John couldn't stop thinking about it, whilst Sherlock thought nothing of it at all. But John had faith; he, ridiculously, had faith in the other man, believed that there had been some sort of connection, of understanding, that they had fought and won a battle together, that there was no going back.

"John. Come here," Sherlock's voice drifted from within the hallway and John jumped slightly, startled out of his thoughts. Instantaneously, his heart started beating a little faster, the pasty taste of anticipation in his mouth. He left his cane by the desk; his leg was hardly aching. The door of Sherlock's office was open, and John stepped inside slowly. Sherlock was leaning back against the desk, his legs running for miles in front of him, hand clutched slightly at the edge of the wood. The position made the shirt he wore under his jacket to stretch against his chest, and John licked his lips slightly. Without even thinking about it John turned to close the door.

"No. Leave it open," Sherlock said, almost too quickly, and John let go of the handle, trying not to feel disappointed. "Sit," Sherlock said, motioning at the couch in front of the coffee table, and John did so, sitting on the edge of the seat tensely. For a moment they simply sat on their respective perches, the air so thick it was hard to breathe. Eventually, however, Sherlock straightened up and unto his feet, walking over to sit on the couch next to John, who looked at his eyes, fearless. The edge of Sherlock's lips twitched, before falling neutral once again.

"John, I want you to tell me why you cut yourself," Sherlock said. John's heart stopped, the bottom of his stomach falling clean away to the soles of his shoes. He had never really talked about it with anybody, not even with his sister and Clara. It had always just hung there, a pink elephant, an ugly stain on his ugly self.

"I thought you could tell everything about me with a glance," John said tightly.

"Oh, I can guess the reasons behind your self-harm. But I want you tell me yourself," Sherlock said lowly. His voice wasn't kind, exactly, but it was soft, leaving the exit door open for John to walk out of. John sighed, running a hand through his hair.

"I, I don't know. I don't know why I do it," he said, frustrated, and scared. To talk about something as deep and vulnerable as this was, frankly, terrifying, but there was a cathartic element to it.

He didn't expect Sherlock not to judge him, but if anybody understood, it would be him.

"Yes you do. Tell me," Sherlock said, and John closed his eyes for a moment, before staring out to the nothingness in front of him.

"I...I just...I need it, I guess. Everything in this world, since I was little, has always been so widely unpredictable, just chaos. Things just seemed to _happen_, all around me, and I am completely powerless to stop it. The...the cutting...it's something that I can control. It's me, I wield the blade, it's my body, and it's, it's, it's so simple. Physical pain is so _simple_. It comes and it washes everything away and then it just leaves, it heals, it can be forgotten. Memories, emotions, they aren't like that. They keep bleeding, and fucking you up. I need that piece of me healing. I just need...control." He looked up at Sherlock's eyes, intense and all-seeing. "I need someone to take control," John finished quietly. He was pretty sure he had made no sense, but there were no words to really describe how much he needed this. There was a long, heavy silence, but John didn't look away from Sherlock. Couldn't.

"I can understand that," Sherlock said eventually, his voice low, quiet. John let out a long breath. "But now I need you to listen to me carefully. Are you listening?"

"Yes."

"John. You will never, ever, cut yourself again. You will throw that box away, and you will never make a new one. That method of control is now over. Do you understand?" Sherlock's voice was as implacable as a towering mountain, hard and deep, and John felt his fists clench slightly. He knew what Sherlock was doing. This was a _direct order_. This was not an eradication of control, this was a shift, from John's hand's to Sherlock's. Sherlock was promising John something, and now John had to decide if he believed in Sherlock Holmes, or if he didn't.

"Ok," John said simply. Sherlock's face was mere inches from John's, now, and John could see the flecks of colours in Sherlock's thinned irises.

"Good," Sherlock said, a simple haunting of breath. John took in the air, made it his, and felt a sudden release, as if the addiction had been flushed out of his system, the blade taken from his hands.

This was what he needed, what he had really needed all along.

...*...

The Thames River roared below him. It was drizzling, and the few people walking past him were just dark ghosts, apart from the brink John was perched on. He held the box in front of him for a moment. The collection of a lifetime. A million moments were held between those lacquered lids, a nest of deadly secrets. This had been a constant in his life, it had kept him sane throughout his darkest years, had been his addiction, his downfall, his only means of survival.

He did not feel fear, or doubt. This part of his life was over, was evolving into something more, something richer.

He opened his hands and let go.

The box fell and hit the water with an unceremonious splash. For a moment it floated, before the water took possession of it, made it his, and the blades, the iodine, the scars, they sank and drifted away.

...*...

Despite John's somewhat incomprehensible faith in the man he had met not long ago, he still worried that Sherlock wouldn't give him what he needed. If something like what had happened in Sherlock's office with John bent over the desk didn't reoccur, then the deal would break, and John would go back to old habits. This wasn't a one-way street; Sherlock had to give as good as he took.

He needn't have bothered worrying.

It was three days after John had thrown his wooden box in the river, and he was in the lab, trying to put some order to the clean but messy surfaces of the long tables. There were no corpses to be seen, for once, a sign from God that now was the time to attempt a clean-up. John moved a stack of papers, most if which seemed to be stained with tea-rings and other more ominous blotches, when he came across it. The crop was long, thin, and had obviously been recently cleaned, the brown leather shiny. The handle was stiff and hard, made of some dark wood, but the folded, leather point was malleable and smooth, worn. John picked it up slowly, wondering on what, on whom, it had been used on. He felt the surface carefully, the leather buttery and rich, creased slightly from use, but the wood didn't have a scratch on it. Obviously well kept, despite it being buried bellow Sherlock's notes.

"John, why are you-" Sherlock stopped short as he entered the lab, staring at John. John looked up briefly before turning his gaze back at the crop.

"What's this for, then?" He asked, trying to sound casual. He could hear Sherlock stepping closer, but he didn't look up. His mouth was a little dry and he was suddenly too aware of his tongue as it rubbed briefly against his pallet.

"I use it to investigate the rate of bruising on corpses," Sherlock said, his voice sounding completely normal to the untrained ear, but John knew better.

"Only on corpses?"

"Yes, John. On corpses." John pinched the head of the crop, feeling how his nail dug into the material.

"I would have thought you could gather more information from a live person," John mused. He saw Sherlock shift in front of him, and a flare of anticipation burned his blood.

"Put that down," Sherlock ordered, but John ignored him. Instead, he ran the top from index finger, slowly, down to his wrist, before slapping the middle of his palm sharply. Sherlock twitched at the sound, and John tried not to smile.

"I said put it down," Sherlock said darkly.

"Why don't you make me?"John said, looking up at Sherlock's eyes, which were just as bottomless as his voice. Sherlock took a step closer, looming over him, so that they were a bare inch apart, and snatched the crop from John's hands. John let it go. Sherlock raised his hand, pressing the tip of the crop on the hollow of John's throat, who was forced to shift back until his back was against the edge of the table. John lifted his chin to bare his neck as the leathered trailed upwards along his throat. It reached his lips and John opened his mouth, letting it slide inside. He breathed over it, feeling the material on his tongue, before biting down, capturing it between his teeth. Sherlock paused, looking at him, before pulling. John held on for a second, but at Sherlock's slight frown he let go, the imprint of his teeth on the leather. Sherlock left a wet trail as the crop smoothed over his cheek before is slapped suddenly against the side of his neck, a bite. John let out a huff of breath as his head turned away instinctively.

"Take off your shirt," Sherlock instructed. John didn't hesitate, didn't even feel embarrassed at showing Sherlock his bare skin. There was something wonderful about giving him control; the actions were out of his hands, the other man's responsibility. It was all about trust. Somehow, John felt taken care of. For someone not to judge him and instead give him what he needed, that was a precious thing. Steadily, though not teasingly, John unbuttoned his shirt, and slid it off his shoulders to lay limp beside him on the table. At Sherlock's slight motion he took his undershirt off as well, pulling it over his head and discarding it. Sherlock's eyes ran over his chest and settled on the scar on his shoulder, something which, despite all their dates, he hadn't even shown Mary yet. Sherlock lifted the crop and slid the point against the cicatrized skin, tracing the star-shaped pattern. John didn't tense, didn't even look away from Sherlock's eyes. He simply stood there, letting himself be examined under Sherlock's piercing gaze, the soft leather.

"Turn around," Sherlock said after a while, and John did so, facing the wall. "Take a step back. Lean down and cross your forearms on the edge of the table. Yes, like that. Now rest your forehead on them. Close your eyes." John followed every instruction, and his skin seemed to tingle and sensitize as he shut his eyes. The anticipation was hot and red within him. He could hear his own heart, his own blood, his own breath, and for a moment it was all there was, him encapsulated in Sherlock's world, the man just an invisible force behind him. When the leather touched him, resting on the nape of his neck and following the line of his spine to the small of his back, John took a little breath, just letting himself feel, be. The crop raised from his skin and there was a moment of complete and utter silence before there was a slight whistle of air, and rustle of clothing, and then the sharp crack of pain as the crop smacked the skin between his shoulder blades. John grunted slightly, shifting. That familiar pain had never been so cathartic, so delicious.

"Don't move," Sherlock instructed. "No, relax. Don't tense your shoulders." John let go of the tension, rolling his shoulders slightly before stilling. There was a slight pause before the crop came down on John's back again, one, two, _three_ times, all in quick succession, drawing horizontal lines at a thirty degree angle from his spine. John breathed deeply and then the smack came again, hard, against his right shoulder blade.

"Relax."

"I'm _trying_," John bit out. At that, Sherlock slammed the crop down on the soft flesh on John's side, and John cried out a little as the pain flared. He wouldn't be surprised if the hit had lifted skin, or even drawn blood.

"Try harder," Sherlock said. John tried relax him muscles, but it was hard, the skin on his back already stinging.

"You're not exactly making it easy," John said a little breathlessly.

"Do you want this to be _easy_?" Sherlock replied, running the tip of the crop along the red welt he had just made. John exhaled, forcing the tension to drain out of his muscles.

"That's it," Sherlock said softly, and proceeded to hit him five times, each a burst of pain, of white, cleaning John from everything else, from all thought, from all other sensation. There was only skin and blood and Sherlock. When it was over, Sherlock let John breathe with a murmured, _Good. _

"Straighten up. Turn around," Sherlock ordered. The skin on his back protested as he did so; Sherlock had definitely drawn blood, but it wouldn't scar. John wished he could see it for himself. He pressed the small of his back against the table and looked at Sherlock, who was ever so slightly flushed, his pupils wide, and John's heart raced faster as he saw the pronounced bulge in the man's trousers, matching his own.

There was definitely now going back, now.

Sherlock raised the leather back to John's mouth.

"Don't bite," he said, and John didn't, letting it rub across his tongue before thrusting in slightly. John fought off the impulse to gag, opening his mouth wider, relaxing his throat, taking it. It tasted like metal and salt. He saw Sherlock lick his lips slightly, saw the want there, and it thrilled John, made him feel alive and whole, unbroken. The crop was removed and placed over an already peaked nipple, cooling it, feeling it, before it slapped down sharply. John gasped slightly, but didn't close his eyes, didn't take them away from Sherlock's, and John could see a phantom of a smile, there. Of approval.

"That's enough," Sherlock said. John let out a slow breath, feeling a little disappointed that it was over, but the pain at his back, he knew, would remain for days.

"Grab your clothes and go sit on the couch in my office. Don't put them on," Sherlock ordered. John looked at him curiously for a moment, but did as was asked, not forgetting his cane this time, though it stayed unused in his hand. The air was cool on his skin and he shivered as he sat down, waiting. There were no real thoughts in his head, just the simple sensation of pain, and a deep, ocean wide calm. After a few minutes Sherlock entered the room, holding some things in his hands.

"Sit facing the arm of the chair." John shifted, and Sherlock sat behind him. John wondered what Sherlock could possibly be doing until he felt something cool and wet against one of the welts on his back and he realized; Sherlock was healing the cuts. John took a deep, sudden breath that had nothing to do with the cold of the liquid.

"Sherlock..."

"Quiet." John struggled for a moment. Somehow, this was infinitely more intimate, more frightening. Eventually, however, he relaxed, letting Sherlock disinfect and band aid his raw skin. The antiseptic stung, but John didn't twitch, didn't even make a sound. He simply closed his eyes as Sherlock's fingers grazed him, skin on skin, warm and real. He wanted those hands to do more, to explore further, but John settled for what he had.

When the last cut was treated, Sherlock removed his hands and they simply sat there, together, listening to the other breathe.

"Turn around," Sherlock said quietly. John did so, looking up at Sherlock's eyes, not a drop of doubt within him. Sherlock lifted his hand, capturing John's chin between his pale, bony fingers. The skin was slightly rough from the chemicals he used, and John thought, for a single moment, that Sherlock would lower his face to his, that he would be able to feel the texture of Sherlock's lips. Instead, however, Sherlock pulled away, gathering his things and standing up, his back turning. The moment was broken, and it dissipated in the air.

"Get dressed. You can finish cleaning the lab," he said. John closed his eyes, tucking his chin slightly, still feeling Sherlock's phantom touch, before grabbing his shirt and pulling it on, smoothing his hair down after buttoning his shirt. He paused at the door for a second and looked back. Sherlock had picked up his violin and was plucking at it slightly, staring sightlessly out the window.

As he went back to the lab, the air filled with the haunting sound of strings.

...*...

"I think you should start brining your gun to work," Sherlock said the next day, peering down his microscope. John looked up from his task, raising his eyebrows.

"How do you...? No, never mind, I don't know why I bother asking. Why?" John asked, imagining what Sherlock could do with a gun. The size of the barrel was perfect for some activities, and he knew how hot the tip could get after it shot. John shifted a little at the image that brought, and Sherlock looked up, raising an eyebrow, and John didn't doubt that the man knew exactly what he was thinking.

"John," Sherlock said warningly, though he paused, as if considering, before shaking his head slightly. "You'll be going on my next case with me. I've given a second thought to what you said about writing up the cases. You don't seem completely illiterate, so it would fall unto you to do it, and I rather they be written with some first-hand experience," Sherlock explained.

"Not completely illiterate," John muttered, "And what made you change your mind?"

"I came to the conclusion that people may be dumb enough to fall for your idea."

"Ah, of course," John said, rolling his eyes. "What exactly am I supposed to do when you get called on a case? I doubt people, and especially the police, will want me there."

"Who cares what people want? They're idiots. I'll tell them you're with me. And you can assist with certain medical aspects, you seem to have picked up some things in the war as well as university. And there are certain times when I need some assistance in...communication," Sherlock said, admitting the last part begrudgingly. John hid a smirk.

"'Communication'? You mean you need help not offending and pissing everybody off," John clarified. Sherlock threw him an annoyed look.

"If that's what you want to call it. In my experience people seem to be overly emotional at crime scenes."

"I wonder why..." John deadpanned, though he felt flattered at the invitation. The prospect of accompanying Sherlock on one of his adventures, for lack of a better word, was exciting, the familiar anticipation of battle in his lungs.

The next day, John's gun securely tucked inside his bag, John had barely stepped into the reception room before Sherlock strode in, coat flapping behind him as he pulled a pair of leather gloves on.

"Let's go," he said, "We have a case."

"What, now?" John said, putting down his bag.

"Yes, _now_. Dead body, police, possibly dangerous. Are you coming?"

"God, yes," John replied at once. Sherlock couldn't have made the offer more tempting. "Should I bring the gun?"

"No, not yet. Let's go," he repeated, and John followed.

The crime scene was bustling when they got there, members of the Yard buzzing around like bees at a hive. Sherlock swept under the yellow tape without preamble, but an attractive, dark-skinned woman stopped John as he tried to do the same.

"And who are you? I wasn't aware we'd given the freak a 'plus one'," she said with more animosity than John felt necessary. He paused, looking at Sherlock, who had turned to look at them.

"Donovan, always lovely to see you," Sherlock greeted mockingly. "He's my assistant. I need him. Let him through."

"Your assistant? Well then, by all means," she said, motioning forwards sarcastically. John hesitated for a moment before catching sight of Sherlock's imploring face and ducking below the tape, limping after him.

"We'll see what Lestrade thinks of this, Freak!" She called after them.

"Well, she seemed nice," John said, and Sherlock snorted, striding forward as if the body would disappear if he were late. John felt a little like Alice in Wonderland following the white rabbit, and he tried to make sense of what was going on around him. They were in some kind of multi-story car park; an ugly, concrete structure that could have fit right into an action movie. Most of the police workers seemed to be huddled a few feet from them, beside a large, imposing pillar with some nonsensical graffiti scribbled on it in black.

"Urgh, not _you,_" a pale man with a long, rodent-looking face said as he spotted Sherlock. He was donned in a blue, plastic protective suit and held a large camera in his hands. "And who are you? This isn't show and tell, Sherlock, you can't bring your pets to school," he sneered. If Donovan was twiddle-dee, this must be twiddle-dum, John thought, getting a little tired of the attitude. He stopped in front of him, straightening his back and shoulders.

"Captain John Watson," he introduced himself, and the man seemed a little taken aback by John tone. "I hope you weren't referring to me when you said 'pet'," he went on in a hard voice.

"I-I..."

"Oh, give it up, Anderson, John has just met you and he's already figured out you don't have enough cognitive ability to form a coherent thought. Go play with your little camera and leave the adults to work," Sherlock said offhandedly, but John didn't miss the small, secretive smile on Sherlock's face at John's little act. Anderson flushed with anger, spluttering, but Sherlock had already moved on. John gave Anderson a quick once-over before following.

"Sherlock! You're late. And who is this? Oh, for God's sake, this isn't a party, you can't just invite-"

"This is Captain John Watson, my assistant. He will help on most cases from now on; you know I can't work with Anderson. His stupidity may very well be contagious," Sherlock said, looking at a harried looking man with short, salt-and-pepper hair and a handsome, if tired looking, face. The man looked at Sherlock, then at John, then back at Sherlock, before sighing into his hand.

"Fine. _Fine_. But Sherlock, _please_ be careful. I'm already bending the rules by letting _you_ in on the case, let alone an...assistant," the man said.

"Yes, yes. Now clear the area and give me five minutes," Sherlock ordered. The man gave John a little exasperated look, and John couldn't help but smile in empathy. He knew only _too_ well how bossy Sherlock could be.

"I'm Detective Inspector Lestrade, by the way," he said, offering John a hand, who shook it with a, _pleased to meet you_. He got the sense that he was going to get along well with the inspector.

"Come along, John!" Sherlock barked, and John rolled his eyes, following nonetheless. They reached the main attraction, and as Lestrade told everybody around to give them five minutes John saw that the victim seemed to be a white male around 25 years old, laying face down in the dirty tarmac, with not a drop of blood to be seen. With a flick of the wrist Sherlock pulled out a small, rectangular magnifying glass and started inspecting the body in a rather unorthodox manner. He walked around the victim once before getting down to his knees and poking and prodding at it, examining the fingernails, the mouth, the hair line, the wrists, the inside of his mouth, before moving down, checking the collar, the pockets, the belt, the shoes. After about two minutes he stood up, looking satisfied. He glanced at John, and then jerked his head towards the body.

"Well? What do you make of it?" Sherlock asked, and John knew this was a test. He got down on his knees, more carefully than Sherlock, minding his bad leg, and looked at the body.

"Dead a few hours; five tops, which makes sense since he's in such a public place. Er...strangled, with some kind of cord, judging by the thin bruising around the neck. Killed here, there's a little blood under his forehead on the floor from where he slumped forward. Doesn't seem to be many signs of struggle; no further bruising on the face or knuckles from a fight. Er...yeah. That's all I've got," he said, straightening up and looking expectantly at Sherlock, who was smiling ever so slightly.

"Good, John. I mean, you left out everything of import, but that was good," Sherlock replied. John let out a huff of breath.

"Oh, great. Well, enlighten us, will you?"

"Yeah, Sherlock, what's the deal?" Lestrade said, obviously impatient. Sherlock pulled out his phone, and started pacing, his gloved fingers flying over the keys.

"Male of 23 to 26 years of age, worked at a bank but hated it, probably forced into it by his family or finances, was in fact impulsive and reckless, which made him the perfect aid to a bank robbery and- yes, here we are, yesterday at noon, a branch of Lloyds was robbed, suspected inside job, this is probably one of their men. But this isn't the first time a killing like this has occurred, or else you wouldn't have called me in, Lestrade, meaning there is a tight-knit group of criminals, probably specialising in robberies, who enlist the help of one of the employees and then kill them off in order to keep all the profits. It would be too risky to recruit the workers at their jobs, so the connection must be a pub or something similar which the victim's all frequented, somewhere where they would get drunk and be overheard talking about their jobs, somewhere local, popular and crowded, for the cover. Find the place, ask the barmen who the victim's were talking to the weeks previous to the robberies and murders, and you've got your killers," Sherlock said in a long rant. John blinked at him.

"That was amazing," he couldn't help but say. Sherlock looked at him and John dropped the smile, aware of his surroundings. "Oh, sorry."

"No...that's alright," Sherlock said.

"How could you know all that, Sherlock? A banker? Impulsive?" Lestrade cut in. Sherlock sighed.

"Look at his nails, the pads of his fingers; clean, and then stained, inky, he's been handling money. But look at his tattoo. It's been corrected; impulsively got it done, didn't like it, got it re-touched, and he's still too young to have that kind of impulsivity dampened. Put those two facts together, and everything else was just obvious," Sherlock said, waving a hand in the air. "Well, this was disappointing. I'm sure even your task force can find the killers without my help, this just became tedious," Sherlock said, and unceremoniously strode away. John and Lestrade shared a look.

"He's always like that, isn't he?" John asked.

"You should see him when it's a case he actually _likes_. Sometimes I fear he's going to kiss the corpse in his excitement," Lestrade sighed, and John laughed a little, though he knew better. Sherlock wouldn't kiss something that was dead. Bleeding, yes, God yes, but not dead.

He hurried after Sherlock. The case hadn't been as exciting as John had expected, but there was something about seeing Sherlock outwit the police without breaking a sweat that was...

Delicious.

...*...

It had been six days since the crop, counting the unbearable weekend, and Sherlock hadn't touched him once, not even a casual graze of fingers at the pass of an object. John was going crazy with frustration. He was not as ruthless in his taking as Sherlock, but neither was he a wilting flower that waits for spring to flourish. John knew how to fight for what he wanted, and had taken to slapping the files down as he sorted them, slamming the stapler with force, so that the sounds echoed in the Mess Room, but Sherlock had loomed in doorway with a sharp, _Stop that!_

"Stop what?" John had said innocently, digging the heel of his palm into the stapler once again, the sound a burst of colour, of red.

"I'm trying to think," Sherlock had replied through gritted teeth, and John had just shrugged.

"Am I distracting you?"

"Just. Stop," Sherlock had said, before striding away. John had sighed, knocking the papers aside, but he hadn't given up. He had begun doing things wrong on purpose; writing up the brief bank robbery case with ample typos and grammatical errors, so that the page was littered with red and green, but Sherlock had just clenched his jaw and ignored it. John didn't quite understand why Sherlock was denying himself, but he wasn't going to indulge him. Not even Sherlock could convince John that what they were doing was wrong. _Safe, Sane, Consensual._ Wasn't that the tag line?

Finally, in the middle of the next week, John entered Sherlock's office with a few cleaning utensils.

"I'm going to clean out your fridge," John said, heading over to it. Sherlock barely glanced up from where he was sitting behind his desk.

"Do what you like," Sherlock said, but as John knelt in front of the white box, he knew he was being watched. Slowly, methodically, he emptied the shelves. Blessedly free of body parts except for a bag of tongues he put in a bowl of ice. Moving himself sideways slightly so that Sherlock could see, he stuffed a clean cloth into his mouth, making a muffled noise as he crawled forward. He scrubbed at the plastic walls vigorously, knocking his knuckles against the cold interior until they were raw, his body shaking with the movements. Sherlock neither said nor did anything, but John kept going, working on his knees, the cloth dampening in his mouth. When he was done, he put everything back in its place and slammed the door shut. The noise was loud and jarring, filling the space between the two men. John turned around, still on his knees, and looked at Sherlock, the material hanging from his lips, his hands on his lap, the knuckles red and irritated from the cleaning liquids. Sherlock was looking at him and John's heart was in his wrists, in his neck, in his mouth, it was spilling its beat into the room in a flood. Sherlock slid out of his seat with the grace of a predator catching the scent of its prey. He walked towards John until he was right in front of him, a long line of suit material and pale skin. Sherlock reached out and John could see the blue veins at his wrists as he pushed to fingers against the cloth in John's mouth, pushing it in deeper, until he was gagging for it. Sherlock threaded his long fingers slowly through John's hair, and John closed his eyes at the sensation, but they opened against as Sherlock fisted his hand and pulled roughly on John's hair, making John sit up so he was no longer sat on his legs but perched solely on his knees. After a moment Sherlock dug the material from his mouth and let it drop beside them, a trampled and rejected white flag.

This was not about surrender.

Sherlock pulled John forward slightly, and the bulge in Sherlock's trousers was unmistakable. John opened his mouth against it at Sherlock's wordless demand, pushing his tongue upward, and he felt Sherlock's fingers tighten painfully, a delicious reward.

"Unzip me," Sherlock's growl ordered, and John lifted his hands, but was cut off with a sharp, _No_. John looked up at him and Sherlock stepped away, letting go of John, who jerked forward at the sudden loss, but he didn't move as Sherlock stepped beside him. He picked up the cloth and tied John's hands behind his back with quick, efficient movements, before stepping in front of him again.

"Now, unzip me." John looked into Sherlock's eyes for a moment before leaning forwards. With some difficulty he pushed the flap of trouser material away with his tongue and manage to catch the metal of the zipper between his teeth on his third try. He pulled down and it slipped from his mouth, but he tried again until it was opened.

"Button," Sherlock instructed. John didn't hesitate, eager, now, but this was more difficult. Just when his attempts were getting ridiculous he managed the button free, holding down the trousers with his chin and pulling sharply with his teeth until Sherlock was completely undone.

"Down, now." John bit both the black underwear and suit trousers with his teeth and bent down, Sherlock's cock sliding against his cheek as it was freed. They fell the rest of the way down, and John sat back to admire his work. For a single moment he wondered how life had taken them to this point; kneeling in front of his boss' cock, hands tied behind his back, mouth dry with want. This was so far from normal it wasn't funny, but it wasn't laughing John was interested in.

"Use the flat of your tongue to lick a line-" John moved forward before Sherlock could finish, tasting salt and musk as he dipped the tip of his tongue to the base nestled in curly black hair and then upwards, slow, savouring him, a unique taste. His senses flared as he heard Sherlock gasp slightly above him, a movement of lust past that unseen mouth. The fingers in his hair relaxed and then tightened, pulling his head so that he craned to the tip of the cock, shoulders straining. When the path was travelled, Sherlock pulled him back, down, and John repeated the motion.

"Take the glans into your mouth," Sherlock's voice said, and John did so, settling back slightly so that Sherlock's cock was a little more horizontal. He held the head in his mouth, neither sucking nor tonguing it, just feeling the weight on his tongue, tasting the pre-cum that dripped to the back of his throat.

"Swallow." John did so, and the movement instinctively pushed his tongue up slightly, careful with his teeth; this wasn't the first time John Watson sucked cock. Slowly, Sherlock pushed John's head forward, and John tightened his lips to create pressure as the cock slid in until it hit the back of his throat, which clenched automatically, but he relaxed it as Sherlock dug his fingers into his scalp. His hair was pulled and his head drawn back, and this time he was held still as Sherlock thrust forward in a contained movement.

"Suck," Sherlock instructed, and John hollowed his cheeks, breathing through his nose. He wished he had a free hand to hold the base, because he couldn't take it all, and his wrists strained against the tie, just to test it. The cloth was tight and rubbed against his skin until it was raw.

"Use your tongue." Sherlock thrust into him again, a little quicker, a little rougher, and John sucked as his tongue pressed against the underside, feeling the veins, the length, the taste. A pace was set, deeper, faster, and Sherlock pulled at John's hair, craning John's head back, and John opened his eyes, opened them for Sherlock, all his senses for him, and he saw the other man's darkened eyes looking down at him, focused, devastating, consuming, possessing, taking all of John, all of him, and John didn't just give, he took in return, Sherlock's flushed skin, his command, his control, the want he saw there. They were being unravelled by each other, were being found in the deep, demon-made forest, the land which had been forbidden, which had been said was wrong, was cruel, was barren, but it was rich in salt tasting minerals, in water and sweat and blood coloured dirt, and they would not leave, could not leave now, it was too late. John was getting dizzy with need, with this, but suddenly, as if it were coming from far away, from another planet, another universe, he heard a noise from outside, a door. Sherlock's eyes flickered, and from the fog came a voice.

"Hello? John? Is somebody in?" It was Mary. Mary. Sweet, nice, wrong-for-him Mary. John choked, a panicked breath filling his lungs. He looked at Sherlock, pleading, because he wouldn't stop if Sherlock didn't let him, and they both knew it. Sherlock thrust in deeply, holding John's hair tight, before pulling away completely, though the fingers on his scalp didn't retire.

"You can talk, but don't move. Don't you even _think_ about getting up," Sherlock said. John breathed a sigh of relief.

"Mary? I can't make it today. I'm sorry, I got caught up...er...I can't come out. We're handling some hazardous material," John said loudly, his eyes not leaving Sherlock's, who seemed amused. There was a pause.

"Oh! Ok. That's fine, I just wanted to see if you could grab some lunch."

"I...I'm already...I already ate," John said, all too aware of the taste of Sherlock in his mouth, of the cock not an inch away from his lips. The side of Sherlock's mouth quirked for a moment.

"Ok! That's fine."

"I'll call you later."

"Ok. Hi, by the way, Sherlock," she said, and Sherlock looked down at John, his eyes a heat that crackled over John's skin.

"Bye-bye now," Sherlock said after a long pause. The sound of footsteps faded and then the front door closing. John let out a long breath.

"Are all your girlfriends usually that boring?" Sherlock asked, and John narrowed his eyes, but he didn't get much of a chance to respond as Sherlock pulled at his hair, and John took the cock back into his mouth. The pace set was brutal and quick and perfect and John sucked, panting through his nose until he felt there couldn't possibly be more oxygen left in the room. He looked up at Sherlock, who was watching everything, as he always was, taking everything in, until they teetered on the brink, and Sherlock's eyes closed, his head thrown back, a long line of pale throat, an exhalation of breath, a moan, strained and contained, and Sherlock came in John's mouth, hitting the back of his throat, and John took it, relaxing his throat and swallowing until he was choking. After a moment Sherlock pulled out, and cum dripped slightly from the corner of John's mouth. Sherlock was breathing a little heavily, but was quickly regaining control. He looked down at John for a moment, before threading his fingers through his hair almost tenderly. John closed his eyes and felt Sherlock shift and suddenly his tongue lapped once at John's lips, collecting the dripped cum. John opened his mouth, breathing over Sherlock's skin, but Sherlock moved away in the same instance. John opened his eyes. Sherlock was tucking himself away before he bent and loosened John's ties. John flexed his hands, pins and needled tingling like ants under his skin as circulation returned.

"You can go take care of yourself in the toilet," Sherlock said. John rubbed at his wrists, painfully hard inside his trousers, and stumbled to his feet. Sherlock sat down behind the desk as John collected the cleaning utensils he had been using on the fridge. His mind was blissfully silent, not even disappointed that Sherlock hadn't really touched him. He felt loose and relaxed and free, a clumsy bird that discovers grace once it's lifted into the air. As John walked out he paused in front of the desk until Sherlock looked up at him, and John smiled, an easy, natural expression. Sherlock did not smile, but his face softened, somehow, the edges of him blunting into something touchable.

John left the door open behind him and left his cane and the bottles of cleaning liquid on the floor of the hallway, stepping into the toilet. He took the cloth that had been used to bind his wrist and tied it around his mouth, yanking down his trousers and wrapping a hand around his cock, a blissful, electric relief. He squeezed hard, shutting his eyes, imagining it was Sherlock's hand on him; how would those long fingers feel? Would he be able to feel the bones of him, or would his very skin be too much?

When he came, Sherlock's name was a muffled noise against damp cloth.


	4. Chapter 4

**On Your Knees**

**Chapter Four**

John felt he had two lives he could separate completely. Half of him belonged to the dark between the walls of the office, where things progressed quickly. He and Sherlock would often go on cases, which John would later write up, and when they were inside the air was often filled with the sounda of slapped skin and muffled groans of pain and pleasure. Outside, he belonged to Mary, to the drama between his sister and Clara. That life was watery and tasteless, a farce, the mask of an antihero who had to keep his real identity hidden. Despite his guilt with Mary, she was a necessary part of the show, even whilst backstage Sherlock and his dark eyes were waiting. Everything seemed to be falling into place. As always, an ordinary man who lived with the soul of a war. For the first time in what seemed like far too long, John felt he could survive, that he could live, that everything was going to be alright.

But all good things are vulnerable to death.

...*...

Clara was sitting in the living room when John arrived home late after a case. She looked up at him as he set his bag down, her eyes red rimmed and her face distraught, and the bottom of his stomach plummeted.

"Harriet?" He asked, frozen in the doorway.

"She didn't come home last night, I didn't want to worry you...you seem so happy lately. I'm sorry, I'm sorry, I just...she isn't answering her phone. I don't know what to do. I've got this awful feeling..." Clara said, pressing the back of her hand to her mouth and closing her eyes, as if warding off the world from entering, conquering, possessing her. John limped to the couch and sat next to her, wrapping an arm around her waist and letting her rest her head on his shoulder. They sank back, as if completely exhausted, and John could feel her tremble slightly as she tried to contain herself. John shut his eyes, trying to ignore the ache that flared in his leg, an unwelcome type of pain. They sat there for a long time, unable to put their sadness and desperation into words or actions. This was what it was like for those who observe someone they love break apart. This was the real price.

John remembered when Harriet was a little girl. Her hair had been so blond, and she had been such a confident, boisterous child, flitting about like a fairy. When they were teenagers they hadn't really gotten along; John, though not shy, and good with people, was reserved, and Harriet had grown wilder and more erratic in her ways. But when they were small, just fragments of what they would become, they had often played together and John, like many children, had been in awe of his big sister. He had loved her in a completely uncomplicated way, a love filled with imagination and tenderness. He had felt protected by her, and sometimes when he had childish nightmares he would go to her room instead of her parents'. Harriet would sleep like the dead, and would rarely wake up when he crawled into her bed, but she would always turn towards him, as if there was an unbreakable connection between them. Now, he often wished for that simplicity back; for his big sister with the golden hair and the open smile, but that didn't really mean he loved her any less. It was an old and worn love, a painful one, but there nonetheless. He hated what she was doing, but he _understood_, and that understanding was what kept John anchored to her, even as she sank and dragged John with her.

The ringing of the phone pierced through Clara and John's numbness as the noise trilled through the room. Clara jerked up and yanked it from its cradle, pressing it against her ear. John sat up, tense with sickly foreboding.

"Hello? Yes, this is she...Oh God. Yes, yes, I...Ok. How is...ok. Which room? Ok, thank you. Yes, thank you, I'll be right there. Bye," Clara said into the phone, before putting it back down. "She's in the hospital, she had an accident, they had to pump her stomach. I...Oh God. John," Clara whispered. John took her by the shoulders, turning her to look at him.

"Clara, it's ok. She's safe, it's going to be ok. We'll take a cab. What hospital is she in?" John said, keeping the panic off his voice.

"St. Mary's."

"St Mary's? Jesus, how did she get that far? Never mind, why don't you pack her a bag and I'll call a cab?"

"Yeah, yes. I'll go...God, what would I do without you?" Clara said, and John pulled her close for a second before standing up and grabbing his phone, Clara following him and then hurried up to the bedroom.

When they got to the hospital, Clara's eyes darted around frantically and John took charge, soldiering his shoulders and limping to the reception desk to ask for the room Harriet was in, as the person over the phone had instructed. As they waited in line, Clara wrung her hands, and John took hold of her wrist, looking in her eyes to calm her down. Clara nodded and stopped fidgeting, but the worry was obvious on her face. John tried to keep his own at bay, but the feeling of anxiety was threatening to flood.

"Room 138," they were told, and they hurried there after asking for directions. The door was open as they reached it, and they found Harriet lying limply on one of the three beds, the dividing curtain drawn to hide her from sight.

"Oh God, Harriet," Clara said as they caught sight of her, her skin sallow from dehydration and the florescent lights, her arms caught in a web of IVs and monitoring devices. Harriet's eyes fluttered open and she looked at them blearily, at her wife clutching her hand beside her, her brother standing at the foot of the bed.

"I'm sorry," she rasped quietly. Her face was bruised and cut, her upper lip split, though no longer bleeding. She smelt of dirt and alcohol and sweat, her hair matted in tangles on her head. Clara pressed the back of Harriet's hand on her forehead and started crying, the release of long-held suffering. John closed his eyes for a second.

"I'll go look for the doctor, ok?" He said quietly, and left the two women alone.

Apparently, Harriet had been drunk out of her mind, and still drinking when she stumbled in front of the moving car. The vehicle had barely nicked her but she had fallen hard on her face, her reflexes too drowned to be of any use. She had dislocated her shoulder, sprained her ankle, and hit her head hard enough for a concussion, so she was under observation, and had arrived completely dehydrated and drunk off her skull, to the point of alcohol poisoning, and had been given some Ro15-4513 to sober her up so she didn't end up passed out again and thus endangering her concussion. John nodded along, and smiled humourlessly when the doctor stressed Harriet's need for abstinence, but said nothing. When the doctor was called away, John returned to his sister's room and stood outside the partition for a moment.

"Clara, please, I promise-"

"No, Harriet, no, enough with your promises," Clara was saying, "If you do or don't give it up, that's up to you now. I'm tired, I'm done. I'm not going to tell you not to drink anymore. This is your last chance. You drink one more sip, and I'm out the door. It's me the one promising this time. I can't do this anymore. This isn't a marriage anymore. I love you, but love just isn't enough. I'm not going to watch you destroy yourself, and me, and John. You give up drinking, or me. It's your choice." There was a sound of a seat scraping back, and then Clara stepped out from behind the curtain. She started when she saw John, her eyes crystallized in tears, but her face was determined. John gave her a small smile. He understood completely.

"I'm going to step out for a moment...John, I'm sorry."

"It's ok," John said simply. For a moment they looked at each other, the beeping of the machines a sickly soundtrack to their silence, before Clara left. John parted the curtains to see his sister crying in the bed she had made for herself. He sat beside her and took her cold, clammy hand, saying nothing. Eventually, Harriet's sobs quieted down, and she lay still, dead weight in John's hand.

"You'll leave me too, eventually," she said quietly. John turned to look at her, his flesh and blood, his sister.

"We aren't leaving, Harriet. You're pushing us away," he said, not with cruelty or malice, but with simple truths. Harriet squeezed her eyes shut and turned her head away.

They lay there, awake and unresting in the mechanical silence of the hospital.

Inside, John tried not to break apart.

...*...

John had no idea what he was doing there. It was 11 pm and Sherlock might very well be asleep, though somehow John imagined his boss to be a nocturnal creature, prone to the dark. John had been standing outside 221 Baker Street for fifteen minutes in the blinding cold after thoughtlessly giving Sherlock's address to the cab driver when he left the hospital. Usually the mounting anxiety inside him would be relieved by the contents of his wooden box, but that wasn't an option anymore. Now, all he had was Sherlock.

When his hands and nose were completely numb from the frigid air, John limped forward, and with a racing heart pressed the intercom button besides "B". There was a long pause, and John was debating whether to call again or leave when static flared suddenly.

"What?" Snapped Sherlock's slightly distorted voice, and John hesitated for a moment, feeling like a complete fool. What would Sherlock possibly think of the mess John was in, seeking him out like a dependent boyfriend when, in reality, they were far from that?

"It's John," he said as steadily as he could manage. There was a long pause and then the door buzzed open. John jumped at the noise, and pushed inside, the warmth of the flat accosting him instantaneously. He took stock of his surroundings at once; the hallway was dim and wallpapered, and a dark staircase led upwards in front of him. He followed it slowly, trepidation and embarrassment growing with every step, until he reached the spilt light from an open door. Sherlock was framed by it, and John could barely see his expression, his eyes unaccustomed to the darkness. John stopped at the last step, and Sherlock looked at him, unmoving.

"You...I needed. I..." John trailed off, searching for something to say, for his presence not to seem so utterly ridiculous. What was he _doing_, showing up at his boss' flat in the middle of the night, just because he was scared he would have a panic attack in his room, that he would be swallowed by the unending feeling of loneliness, of claustrophobic uselessness. He was about to make something up, any excuse, a dumb reminder about tomorrow's customers, anything, when Sherlock interrupted his frantic thoughts.

"You're sister hit bottom, then? Or so she hopes," Sherlock's voice said, the tone giving nothing away. John's throat closed for a moment before it let out a stuttering breath.

"Yeah, something like that. I...I'm sorry. I don't know what I'm even doing here," he laughed hollowly. "I'll go." John cursed every bone in his miserable body as he turned around and walked down the stairs. He was half way down when Sherlock's voice stopped him.

"Stop being ridiculous. Come in." John stopped, looking over his shoulder at Sherlock's lean silhouette. His hand clenched around his cane before turning around and limping up toward Sherlock, who stepped out of the way to let John inside the flat. The door was closed quietly behind him. John looked around. The living room he stood in was cluttered with books and miscellaneous objects. John hadn't been expecting anything else, though the swirling pattern of the wallpaper was a bit of a surprise. John noticed that though there was a long couch and a single armchair around a coffee table, there wasn't a TV to be seen. There was, however, a sleeping fireplace, and above it was the skull that usually sat in Sherlock's office. John realized that Sherlock must take it back and forth with him, and the thought was oddly endearing, as if seeing Sherlock attached to something that was once human gave something away about what the man really needed. Sherlock stepped into view, and John saw that he was donned in pyjamas and a blue, silk robe. The hair at the back of his head was mussed and sticking up, as if he had been lying down before John arrived. His feet were bare, and the delicate looking ankles jarred something in John, who had only ever seen his boss dressed in well tailored suits. Like this, he seemed so much more human, as if the mechanical aspects of his self had been stripped away to reveal a softer underbelly. His eyes, however, were just as sharp and analysing as always.

"I don't know what I'm doing here," John repeated. Sherlock raised his eyebrows slightly.

"Don't you?" Sherlock said with a penetrating gaze. John shifted uncomfortably. It was too hot in the room.

"Take off that jacket and sit," Sherlock said, motioning to the armchair, and waited until John had done so before sitting in the middle of the couch, resting his elbows on his legs with his hands, palms pressed together, held in front of his lips. John grew increasingly more uncomfortable as Sherlock simply sat there, looking at him.

"Did I wake you?" John said finally, not standing the strained silence any longer, though he was sure that if Sherlock felt the tension, he was paying it no mind.

"No. I usually don't sleep more than four hours a night, unless it's right after a long case," Sherlock replied, not shifting from his pose.

"I'm sure that's very healthy," John joked half-heatedly.

"It's efficient." There was another long pause, before John reached the end of his tether.

"Look, Sherlock. I...I'm just here because I needed...needed...fuck, are you going to make me say it?" John burst out, frustrated. Though he wasn't exactly sure what he had been expecting; for him to show up and Sherlock to simply bend him over a table and get on with it?

"I'm not making you do anything," Sherlock said far too calmly.

"Yeah, well, maybe that's the problem," John muttered. Sherlock twitched slightly, before leaning back, his arms spreading across the back of the sofa. His plain white t-shirt stretched across his chest. John tried to swallow, but his mouth had gone dry. The pause that followed was much heavier.

"Stand up," Sherlock said, his voice betraying nothing. Something burned inside John quietly as his heart picked up the tempo. John got up, his cane forgotten. He stood in front of Sherlock awkwardly, examined. Sherlock said nothing, simply observing him, and John waited until Sherlock, too, stood up, the coffee table separating them. John's fingers twitched in anticipation. Already, the anxiety of the day was being diluted by want, by the thrill of this. Slowly, Sherlock rounded the table, and then John, stopping behind him. John forced himself to stand still, to not look back, even though he badly wanted to, to see the expression on Sherlock's face. He was rewarded by a hand coming up to clutch the hair at the back of his head and Sherlock pulled so that John's back was suddenly against Sherlock's chest, his head pressed on a bony shoulder. He let out a breath of held air as Sherlock's face came down to breathe over his neck. The tip of a nose brushed John's earlobe before a tongue licked at John's skin lightly, a teasing taste, and John had to close his eyes, had to. Sherlock had only touched him once with his mouth, after the blow job in his office, and it felt as if they were being taken deeper, into the darkest part of the rabbit hole. John wondered how long he'd be falling.

"When I let you go, you're going to go to the table over there, and lean over it with your forehead against your folded forearms," Sherlock said quietly, a hot mouthful of air against John's ear. Sherlock held him like that, hair straining in his fingers, before letting John go, who walked towards the table in question without hesitation and did as he was told. A minute passed, and then another, as Sherlock simply made him wait, and John wasn't sure if this was a game or something else, but it didn't matter, the results were the same; John kept still and silent, his body tense, ready to snap. John heard the rustle of clothes, the almost invisible sound of those bare feet against the floor, and then Sherlock's voice, low, behind him.

"Lower your trousers," Sherlock said. John stayed still. That was new. John had never removed the bottom part of his clothes, and the implications made him hesitate. How far would he let Sherlock take him?

"Are you afraid I'm going to fuck you?" Sherlock asked, and his dark voice saying _fuck_ coiled something heated at the pit of John's stomach. He licked his lips, not responding. Was he _afraid_ of Sherlock fucking him? That was a complicated question. He wasn't afraid of the action itself, he realized, but the implications, the consequences. What if John got in too deep, and Sherlock left him to drown?

"I'm not going to fuck you," Sherlock went on, and it was with surprise that John found himself disappointed. "Pull down your trousers," Sherlock instructed again, but John still didn't move. There was a shift of clothes as Sherlock stepped a little closer. "I told you. I'm not going to fuck you," he said, lower, more quietly this time.

"What if I want you to?"John's mouth said, the words coming out as if they belonged to someone else. There was an excruciatingly long pause and John bit his lip hard as he waited for Sherlock to react.

"_Do_ you want me to fuck you?" asked Sherlock finally. John swallowed drily.

"Yes," John said, without vacillation this time, and, keeping his bent pose, undid his trousers and lowered them and his underwear to his thighs, before resting his head on his arms again. After a moment he felt the cold tip of Sherlock's fingers on his hip, under his jumper, just a simple touch.

"John," Sherlock said quietly, and John shivered, the hairs on his skin raising. Then Sherlock removed his hand and then lowered it again, hard, against the bare skin of John's right cheek, and then twice more in quick succession. John clenched his teeth to keep the grunt, that wanted to escape, caged, and closed his eyes. His mind went blissfully blank, filling with pain. Sherlock stopped, and John heard him move away, and then around the flat for a minute before returning and reaching into John's crumpled pocket to retrieve something; his wallet, John guessed, though he couldn't fathom the reason. There was the sound of a cap being lifted and then the splutter of something being squeezed out of a tube, and John's heart starting racing even quicker. _That_ he could deduce the meaning behind. John's trousers were pulled down further until they slumped onto the floor.

"Open your legs wider," Sherlock ordered, and John shifted apart. A cool, lubed finger pressed against his entrance, and John tensed, and then forced himself to relax, taking a breath, giving permission. The finger pushed in. John's breath caught in his throat. Part of him couldn't quite believe what was happening, what was about to happen; Sherlock was going to fuck him bent over a table in his flat. If there was a point of no return, this was it. This was no longer just about pain and release, this was about a purer variety of pleasure. John's cock was hard and leaking against his jumper, and his teeth were chewing through his bottom lip. John was tight, but Sherlock went slow, thrusting his finger in and out at an even pace, and his other hand came up to dip its nails into John's hip, as if to remind him what they were all about. Sherlock pulled out completely, there was the sound of more lube being squeezed out, and then a second finger was pushed in, accompanied by a slight ache as John stretched further for Sherlock. But Sherlock was just as thorough, scissoring the fingers after a few deep thrusts, and John fought the urge to thrust back, to tell Sherlock to go faster, to go _now_. Then Sherlock pushed a third finger in and the burn increased, making John grunt out slightly, taking it. He was sweating under his jumper, his cock screaming for attention. Finally, Sherlock pulled his fingers out, and John heard the rip of a packet, and realized why Sherlock had taken his wallet: he always kept a condom there, just in case. There was the slide of lube and Sherlock sighed slightly, and John could picture Sherlock's long fingers on his pink, encased cock, preparing himself. John tried not to moan in anticipation, but a small sound escaped as he felt Sherlock press against him, and then suddenly he was pushing in. That first thrust was always one of the most delicious, the pain and pleasure of being filled harmonizing into white-washing sensation.

"Sherlock," John stuttered, and Sherlock gripped his hips still as he was buried completely.

"Don't talk," Sherlock instructed, his voice sounding strained. John bit his tongue quiet as Sherlock pulled back almost all the way and then thrust in sharply, the slap of skin-on-skin sounding across the room. John could feel every inch of him, the pain that coursed to the small of his back giving way slowly to building pleasure. He could feel the bones of Sherlock's fingers against his hips, digging, always searching for deeper space. Sherlock started moving more quickly, and soon set a completely merciless pace, rocking John forwards even as he tried to keep still, fighting the almost uncontrollable urge to thrust back. Then a hand was removed from John's hip to grip around John's cock and John couldn't bite down the moan that flew with feathered soul from deep within his chest.

"_Oh Dios, ten piedad_," he groaned.

When he was in the army, there had been a South American soldier in his team for a few months. There is a moment before death, before you know that everything is going to end, that there is no way back, that all control has left your hands, when a person cannot accept the simple truth of dying, when they turn to anything available to escape the notion that things were just going to end. Most people, even the most atheist, turn to God; to the only possible solution to escape from what seems like an inevitable death. It is pure human fallacy, to deny truth in the search of hope. John remembered what that South American soldier had said when he had been shot as John tried to cover him from the ceaseless onslaught of bullets. Dios, ten piedad.

_God, have mercy. _

But John knew that there was no mercy to be found here.

The mounting sensation was like a wildfire consuming him, burning away his nerves, his coherence, every single thought except for the feel of Sherlock hitting his prostate in bursts of stars and those pale fingers on his cock as Sherlock slammed into him again, and again, and again. John tried to hold on, but the brink was high and the winds were strong and he was pushed over the edge with a muffled shout, dragging down Sherlock with him as the other man groaned and tensed behind him, a few more shallow thrusts before stilling.

For a while, there was a sweet, boneless nothing as John trembled over the table, not slumping to the floor by sheer force of will. Sherlock was pressed against John's clothed back, a heavy pressure, until the man pulled away, sliding out of him, and the contact was lost, letting John's skin feel the comparably cool air. John was left panting in a broken L. As he opened his eyes he could see his cum had hit the floor under the table when Sherlock tilted his cock slightly in the moment of release. John imagined Sherlock cleaning it up after John had left, and the thought sent a curl of amused pleasure through him, though John rather do it himself whilst Sherlock watched.

"You can get dressed," Sherlock said. John took a breath and gripped the rim of his trousers off the ground, slowly standing upright, feeling the aches and burns of his body. His arse was incredibly, amazingly sore, both from the fucking and spanking. He would feel Sherlock there for the following day at least. John buttoned his trousers and turned around, leaning the small of his back against the table. Sherlock was looking at him, his hair plastered slightly by sweat to his temples and forehead, and there was still a slight flush on his cheeks. John was suddenly overcome by the urge to kiss him, to truly taste between tongues and teeth, to feel the skin over those sharp cheekbones, see if they would cut the palms of John's hands. But he didn't. That was against the rules. Instead, John simply watched Sherlock dig through the debris on the coffee table to pull out something from a small cardboard box, unpeel it, and stick it to his wrist. A nicotine patch, John noticed.

"A recent government study showed that one in five alcoholics stay sober after one year if they remain in AA for over a month," Sherlock said suddenly. John smiled.

"I've heard AA has a 2% success rate," John countered.

"Statistics can be misleading," Sherlock replied, shrugging, and John felt a curious sort of affection towards him. He suddenly realized that Sherlock wasn't just someone who fucked him over kitchen tables when it pleased him; John spent the majority of his time with Sherlock, staying until late on cases, making sure he didn't rant himself into an early grave in the office and running after him on the field. They bickered and talked and though Sherlock was John's boss, he was also his friend. The word may not have seemed completely fitting for what they had; too soft, too common, but it was applicable nonetheless. Sherlock, in his own way, though he was often demanding and domineering, _tried_. John couldn't really ask for much more.

"Thanks," John said quietly, and Sherlock waved him off, slumping on the couch. "I think I'll go get some sleep, go see my sister in the morning, let Clara rest. That is-"

"Yes, yes, you can have the day off. You're not indispensable," Sherlock muttered dramatically. John huffed a laugh.

"Right, of course. Thanks," John said, picking up his wallet, cane and jacket and heading towards the door. He looked back once as his hand rested on the doorknob to look at Sherlock, who was plastering another patch on his arm. John contemplated telling him off, but he decided to choose his battles. This one wasn't worth it.

"Bye," he said, and Sherlock hummed in return. John smiled and shut the door behind him.

His sister was still in hospital with a distraught wife by her side, and John still had to pick up the pieces, but inside the raising tides had calmed. Everything was in focus, manageable, in control, and he had but one person to thank for that.

...*...

When Sherlock has said that things could get dangerous whilst working for him, he hadn't been kidding. John was crouched behind a large metal storage unit in the middle of the night, his hands steady, his leg silent, and the familiar, deadly thrum of battle coursing through his veins. The man they had been following had more back-up than John had been expecting, though Sherlock had probably known exactly what they had been getting themselves into, the reckless fool.

Not that John was exactly complaining.

"Four men, two northeast, one north, one west. Jackson is probably long gone but the blundering idiot will have left a trail, and the grandfather clock has to be in one of these units, most probably northeast, about 30 feet behind the two farthest men, judging by the way they have been circling," Sherlock whispered.

"I can't believe we're doing this for a grandfather clock," John muttered, counting the footsteps as they got closer.

"It's gold faced and encrusted in jewels, John."

"I know that, but still. Sounds a little ridiculous."

"Yes, well, people are ridiculous."

"Including us. Why isn't the police backing us up?"

"Because they're a bunch of barnyard animals in uniforms who can't follow a clue even if it left a trail of breadcrumbs behind."

"And because you're an impatient tit. You did call them, right?"

"I texted Lestrade. Now be quiet," Sherlock said as someone scuffled nearby. John tensed, his gun ready in his hands. All they had to do was hold off or get out of there until the police arrived, since they had successfully tracked the main perpetrator to the storage facility. Easier said than done, though.

"_Now_," Sherlock hissed and without hesitation John sprinted forwards, keeping low and making sure to cover Sherlock, who kept close to his shadow. They rolled behind another unit and waited.

"We're being surrounded," Sherlock said.

"Yes, I can see that."

"We should go south-"

"No you idiot that's flooded with light, we'll be seen immediately."

"I can-"

"No you can't. Shut up and follow me," John said quietly, and started creeping forward. They managed to advance a few more units when there was a shout from behind them.

"There!" Someone shouted, and John cursed mentally as a bullet pinged with a spark nearby. He grabbed Sherlock and steered him forwards until the taller man took the lead. They wove around the units, and it was with relief that John heard the wailing of police car sirens quickly getting closer.

"Do they _have_ to announce their arrival so obviously?" Sherlock panted, but John had been distracted by the noise, and as Sherlock suddenly took a sharp left John took a right. He turned to backtrack but it was too late, one of the goons had rounded the corner and shot clumsily at him. John ducked behind one of the compartments, all too aware that Sherlock was without a weapon, but John was used to the battlefield, to covering his comrade's backs. He calculated mentally and ran around the units to where Sherlock would most likely be. He peeked around a corner to spot a flash of Sherlock's familiar form, and his stomach clenched as he saw another shadow close behind. Without a second thought John shot at the man, close enough so that the bullet whizzed in front of him to hit the metal wall at his side, but not to hit him; he didn't want to explain the presence of his gun to the arriving police. It was enough to distract the goon from Sherlock, but he found a new target in John, taking a shot at him. John was prepared, and threw himself sideways, the bullet missing him, but he howled in pain as his ankle twisted below him, and he crashed to the floor. There was a moment of complete silence and then the sound of slamming car doors and shouted, _police!_

"Shit," John heard the man say, and then his footsteps as he scuttled off, right into the hands of the silent police on the other side of the facility, no doubt. John leaned against one of the units, tensely listening for further danger, but the game was over and won, and he slid down to the floor to alleviate the pressure on his aching ankle.

"Why have one limp, when you can have _two_?" John muttered sarcastically, slumping forwards, though his heart was soaring, and a smile was at the edge of his pained grimace. Adrenaline was a wonderful thing.

"John!" A voice said loudly, and Sherlock was suddenly on him, clutching his jacket and lifting his head.

"Ow! Hey, hey, what are you doing?" John protested, swatting Sherlock away, who had begun to examine him, running his hands over John's body.

"There isn't any blood. Where were you shot?" Sherlock said, looking confused, which was rare enough, but John realized there was concern there too.

"Sherlock, calm down, I wasn't shot. I just sprained my ankle. I'm fine. Really," John assured him. Sherlock looked at his ankle and then at John's eyes before yanking his hands back as if John has suddenly turned acidic.

"You fucking _idiot_!" Sherlock hissed. John raised his eyebrows.

"Ok, you're going through emotions way too quickly for me. Help me up, will you, and get me to the medic so we can go home. I think I deserve a nice cup of tea," John said, but Sherlock just crouched beside him, staring at him. "Sherlock?"

"_Don't_ do that again," Sherlock said lowly.

"Do...what, exactly?"

"Just..._don't_!" Sherlock snapped, and grabbed John by the collar of his jacket suddenly, pulling him forwards so that their faces were barely a few inches apart. John parted his lips in surprise, but Sherlock did nothing, just held him there, and the air fogged between them. Just as abruptly, Sherlock let go of him, and then hooked an arm under John's armpit to help him up. John stumbled to his feet, keeping the weight off his bad ankle, shaken by Sherlock's actions. They didn't say anything as they reached the police, and Sherlock dumped him unceremoniously in the ambulance, staying only long enough to hear that the ankle wasn't broken, just badly sprained, before walking out of sight. When the medic was done with him, John limped towards where he had seen Sherlock disappear, but was stopped by Donovan.

"The Freak's gone, if that's who you're looking for. He does that, you know. He doesn't care about what he leaves behind," she said snidely. John barely looked at her, nonetheless frustrated by Sherlock's sudden disappearing act, not that it was all that uncommon, but it had been a while since John hadn't been able to keep up. And this time it seemed different, more deliberate; Sherlock always left because he was chasing after something. This time, however, John had the sense that Sherlock wasn't searching for anything; he was running away.

...*...

The next day, despite John's various attempts to engage him in conversation, Sherlock was unusually silent for not being on a case. He stayed in his office, not even going into the lab, and left John to get on with work in peace, which was unusual in and of itself. After the events of the previous night, John found Sherlock's distance troubling. He spent the last hour of the working day trying to gather the most interesting sounding cases from their submit folder and went in the office in the hopes of getting Sherlock out of his slump.

"Hey, I've got some cases for you to look over," John said as he entered the office, where Sherlock was laying down on the couch in his typical "thinking pose".

"Leave them on the desk," Sherlock said shortly, and John limped forwards to do so, taking care not to put any weight on his ankle, though his leg had been mercilessly painless for days. He turned around and leaned on his crutch, looking at Sherlock.

"You ok?" John said, though what he really wanted to ask was why Sherlock had left so abruptly the night before.

"I'm _fine_, John," Sherlock said impatiently. John fought the urge to roll his eyes at Sherlock's tone, when he noticed how unusually rumpled Sherlock's suit was.

"Sherlock...is that the suit you were wearing yesterday?" John asked, surprised. Except for the time John had shown up at his flat, he had never seen Sherlock in anything but a well tailored, pristine suit.

"So?"

"Didn't you go home last night?"

"How is that any concern of yours?" Sherlock grumbled, and John sighed, giving up. Sherlock was clearly in one of his implacable moods.

"Well, I'm going home. Do you need anything else?" John said, already moving towards the door. He winced as he put a little too much pressure on his ankle, and Sherlock sat up suddenly, making John pause.

"Sit," Sherlock ordered, pointing at the space beside him on the couch.

"Uh..."

"_Sit_," Sherlock repeated more sharply, and John hobbled over, lowering himself carefully on the couch.

"Let me see you ankle," Sherlock said, patting his knees, and John realized he meant for John to place his sore ankle on his lap. That was...unexpected.

"Sherlock, I don't really want you hurting me now," John said, unsure as to what Sherlock's motivation was. He counld take a crop, but he wasn't keen on accidental injuries.

"I'm not going to _hurt_ you, you imbecile," Sherlock bit out, looking genuinely angry. His hair was in disarray and for a moment he looked a little crazy. Well, crazi_er_.

John shifted back and lifted his ankle unto Sherlock's lap, feeling uneasy. He had no idea where this was going. But Sherlock simply lifted John's trouser leg slightly, slipped off his shoe, and begun to carefully examine the injury. John often found it amazing how such an often manic man could be so delicate with some things. John would sometimes watch him in the lab as he handled cultures and slides and wondered at those graceful, long fingers, which could just as easily wield a crop, or fist in John's hair.

"Sherlock, what are we doing?" John said suddenly, unable to help himself. Sherlock looked up briefly before turning back to John's foot.

"I'm examining your injury. _You_ are trying to complicate things," Sherlock replied.

"I'm not trying to complicate anything. I'm just...what we're doing. It's...I'm just not sure what it is," John said. It was partly untrue; John understood why they were doing this, he understood both his and Sherlock's needs. But at the same time it was far from normal; this wasn't a relationship. Sherlock was his boss and John had a girlfriend and, God, it was fucked up. This was cheating, pure and simple, and John had never thought himself capable of that, but he feared that what he had with Sherlock would end as suddenly as it had begun, and where would that leave John?

Sherlock placed John's shoe back on and John removed his leg from Sherlock's. The loss of connection rang of something more meaningful.

"What we are doing is that you need pain to feel in control of your anxiety and I'm providing you with it," Sherlock said nonchalantly, and John took a sharp intake of breath, feeling anger curl its way up his chest.

"No, let's get something straight here, _I _don't need this, _we _need this," John said, frowning. Sherlock raised an eyebrow in response, but John could see his jaw clench beneath pale skin. "Don't be a dick, Sherlock. Who are you trying to fool?" John bit out, frustrated by Sherlock's sudden interest in denial. This wasn't going to happen, John wasn't going to let Sherlock try and pretend John was some kind of pet Sherlock was taking care of. This wasn't just about John's anxiety, his need for release, this was also about Sherlock, about his needs, his character.

"I don't _need_ anything, least of all you," Sherlock said coldly. John opened his mouth, his stomach clenching. He tried to keep the hurt from his face, relying on the neutral barrier he often used in the military. He could feel his shoulders straightening unconsciously, but the anger was a little too much, and one of his hands came up to grab at Sherlock's left lapel.

"You don't need food, you don't need sleep, you don't need people or company or this? What a load of bullshit. You can deny it all you want but you were the one who bent me over the desk and hit me that first time, you're the one who let me into your flat knowing what would happen. You're in this as much as me, and I swear to God, Sherlock, don't you fucking try to deny it. I may not be as smart as you but I'm not stupid either. Everybody needs a friend," John said harshly. He felt dread and hurt and fury; what he had found with Sherlock, it wasn't just a physical thing, a splatter of blood against abused skin. It was a deep sort of understanding and, more, an acceptance of a part of himself that had been tabooed and forsaken. No two people are the same, but that doesn't make the differences between them wrong or open to judgement, and for Sherlock to suddenly imply that John was alone in this, _alone again_, that was intolerable. But Sherlock pursed his lips, leaning his face away from him.

"I don't have _friends_," Sherlock growled. John sat there for a moment, incredulous, before releasing Sherlock in disgust. He had no words to counter such stubborn stupidity. John grabbed his crutch, not even able to look at Sherlock's face again, and limped out of the office, out of the building, into the frigid London air.

So much for Sherlock alleviating his anxiety. It burned bright and tight inside him, an inescapable force.

...*...

Things only got worse. Outside the office, things progressed steadily with Mary, though they barely had sex; John couldn't risk Mary seeing too many of his scars, and he guessed Mary assumed John was body shy, for he would always keep the majority of his clothes on. For John, the relationship was a sinking stone dragging him down. He felt a deep shame at deceiving her like he was, and the guilt of it was eating him away, but John was too used to denying parts of himself to escape the need for a mask. John knew that if anybody were to suggest there was a relationship between Sherlock and him, the words "I'm not gay" would come out of his mouth faster than he could think. And before the army, he would have even believed it himself. The only one who noticed something amiss was Clara, but she was busy enough with Harriet's rehabilitation that John could easily distract her away from a dangerous subjects.

John kept turning up for work as always, but nothing was the same. Sherlock stopped asking him along for cases, and John spent the majority of the day alone and unsupervised. Every moment that had been filled with easy banter or metallic tasting slaps disappeared in the wake of their last real conversation, and John was left shell shocked, his dreams haunted by dark eyes and the long bones of pale hands. Despite what Sherlock might want to pretend, John knew Sherlock Holmes was real, that the farce the man wanted to paint of himself was just a way to get out of the line of fire, to protect parts of him that he couldn't let go of. John feared Sherlock would die before facing what was really there, who he really was, and it left John with a deep ache. At times he thought it might have been better never to have met Sherlock at all, to never discover these previously unearthed parts of himself, but he knew those thoughts were just defensive mechanisms against the frank truth; Sherlock had changed John, had brought the battlefield to his life, had made him trust somebody and himself again, and despite Sherlock's sudden phantom absence, he was thankful. Though part of him seemed paralyzed by Sherlock's false death, his pretence that he didn't need this as much as John, he decided he had to bring Sherlock back, had to force the truth onto him. And so when a week had passed without a touch from Sherlock, John took to making every mistake he could think of whilst working. He messed the Mess Room up, he would write up the few cases he had left to publish in the flowery, grammatically incorrect way Sherlock detested. He even went as far as ruining a few of Sherlock's experiments, the ones John knew weren't depended on urgently for cases. But Sherlock would not bite. John could see the tension mounting, the way Sherlock's eyes would darken, his jaw and fists clench, the way he would leave a room abruptly, _controlling himself_, but he never gave in. But John knew Sherlock wasn't an expert in self control. He would break.

John would make him break.

...*...

The only sound that could be heard in the office was the wolf-pack presence of the howling wind being sliced by cars and buildings outside. The winter sunsets of London meant that, even though it was a little past five in the afternoon, the sky was already pitch black.

John sat in the mess room and waited. Sherlock had arrived from a case twenty minutes ago and had gone straight to his office, where John had prepared him a little present. A little _fuck you_ mixed in with _come get me_. John knew a little about battle tactics, and this was a fatal blow. He knew it. He could smell the killing.

"John." And there it was. John smiled to himself, but didn't get up. Let the bastard wait, let him feel the want. "John!" Barked Sherlock after a minute, and John got up, following the sound. He would fight this battle until the very end.

He walked into the office to see Sherlock framed by John's masterpiece. Like he had kept his blades like mementos in a wooden box before meeting Sherlock,

John had catalogued every cut and bruise Sherlock had decorated his skin with, printing out the photographs in his room and tracing each red line and purple cloud with the tip of a finger. Now, those pictures did not only adorn his skin, but the wall behind Sherlock's desk, a morbid tribute to their tryst. And in the middle of Sherlock's desk rested the final touch; the crop, teeth marks branded into the tip, for John had bitten down long and hard enough to leave a permanent mark.

"What is this?" Sherlock asked with deadly quiet, his back to the wall. John stopped a few feet from him, feeling the unavoidable smile curl his lips.

"I thought you'd be able to deduce it," John said calmly, and Sherlock took two quick, angry steps forwards, before stopping. John raised his eyebrows mockingly, and Sherlock clenched his fists tightly.

"That's enough of your foolishness. Take them down, _now_," Sherlock ordered, his cheeks flushed, eyes wild.

"I'm surprised you're so affected. I mean, it's not like you _need_ this, is it?" John replied, unmoved. Sherlock pursed his lips and lifted his chin, as if rising above what John was suggesting, but he wasn't fooling anybody, least of all John.

"You don't know what you're doing," Sherlock said harshly, and it was John's turn to be unamused.

"I know _exactly_ what I'm doing. Every moment, every time, with you, I _know. _You want to pretend this isn't real, that you've been _faking it_ all along, that I'm alone in this, but I know the truth. We both know exactly what we're doing, it's you that just doesn't want to admit it," John said harshly, feeling every word as if it were peeling off his skin. Sherlock stood there for a moment before his expression broke into anger, into a sort of desperation, his hands threading through his hair in frustration. He whirled around to face the wall, the pictures, the map of scars and oceans of bruises. John's heart was a cacophony of drums, and then Sherlock turned again, and this times his eyes were intent and focused and he advanced on John, pushing him back, who stumbled on his crutch until the back of his legs hit the sofa and was shoved down, and suddenly he had a lapfull of Sherlock as the other man straddled him.

"You'll regret this," Sherlock said quietly over him.

"No I won't," John replied and then, for the first time, Sherlock kissed him. His lips were chapped and raw and John closed his eyes and opened his mouth and moaned because, God, this was what he had been waiting for. Sherlock bit his lip, drawing blood, and both their tongues reached out to taste, meeting in the middle and pushing, lapping, consuming. Sherlock bit him again, teeth digging into already sliced skin, and John groaned, wanting so bad he felt he would never have enough. Sherlock rocked forward and John got so hard so fast it _hurt_, but wasn't this what it was all about?

Sherlock seemed frantic, kissing him deep, pushing him back, and John gave everything he had, as good as he got. Sherlock shoved his hands under John's jumper and yanked upwards, breaking the kiss to remove the clothes and throwing them aside. When Sherlock returned, it was to John's neck, using his teeth more than his lips or tongue, leaving marks of possession, of lust, of need, dragging his nails down John's torso, lifting up skin. John cried out, arching, and Sherlock made a low noise of want at the back of his throat. He lowered his mouth, nipping a beaded nipple, and John could hardly do anything but pant. He raised his hands to clutch at Sherlock's hair, but was stopped with a, _no, keep still_. John obeyed.

Suddenly, Sherlock was off him, and for a second John panicked, thinking the worst, but Sherlock simply strode to his desk and pulled two boxes out from the bottom drawer. As Sherlock came back, John saw that it was a tube of lube and a box of condoms, both new and unopened, and the implications of Sherlock having those in the office was not lost on him.

"Sherlock, Sherlock," John murmured as Sherlock straddled him again.

"Shut up, be quiet," Sherlock said, but he kissed John again, just as hard and harsh as all of him, but his skin and tongue were soft. Sherlock lifted a little, and undid John's trousers, pulling them and his underwear down, and John's cock rose to lie on his stomach, already weeping with need.

"Don't move, don't talk, and don't close your eyes," Sherlock instructed in a low, steady voice. John nodded jerkily, and watched as Sherlock spread some lube on the palm of his right hand and then wrapped it around John's cock. It took everything in him not to moan at the touch, the tight squeeze, but he managed, keeping his eyes on Sherlock amidst fluttering eyelashes. Sherlock ran his thumb over the underside slowly, then over the tip, mixing cum and lube, and then back down, and again, again, in a slow, torturous pace. The air rasped against John's dry mouth as he struggled to keep still and not thrust up into those incredibly long fingers. Sherlock leaned forwards and bit into John's shoulder, and John trembled uncontrollably, using every ounce of self control not to moan.

"Good, John. Good," Sherlock whispered, lapping at the mark his teeth hadleft, his hand around him loosening and then pulling away. John didn't know if to count it as a mercy or a curse, but he was distracted as Sherlock undid and pulled his own trousers down. Sherlock lubed his fingers, but when Sherlock leaned up on his knees and placed a fingertip to his own entrance, John realized this wasn't going to go down like he expected. John held his breath and then the finger slipped in, and Sherlock closed his eyes, tilting his head back slightly to reveal the long line of a pale throat above the collar of his still buttoned shirt, and started rocking. John had to let out a strangled gasp at the sight, had to clench his hands to keep from taking Sherlock himself. Sherlock inserted a second finger and _moaned_, and John closed his eyes for a moment, fearing he might be unable to take it, this psychological binding of his wrists, but he took a stuttering breath and opened his eyes again to watch Sherlock fuck himself with his fingers. Soon, it was three, a steady rhythm now, and John bit lip where Sherlock had left his mark, letting the sting and blood coat his skin. He watched as those fingers appeared and disappeared, like a hypnotist's chant, took in Sherlock's strangled noises, his trembling thighs. Finally, Sherlock removed his fingers and reached over for the box of condoms, opening it clumsily and ripping a packet open with his teeth. The anticipation was burning holes in John's self control as he watched Sherlock roll down the condom on John's cock and then applied a little more lube. Slowly, Sherlock rose up higher, and positioned John under him. There was an excruciatingly long pause, and then Sherlock sank down. John watched as his cock slipped deeper and deeper into Sherlock, feeling the impossible pressure around him, and scratched at the couch to keep still and silent. When Sherlock was impaled completely, he stopped, and both men breathed.

"Look at me," Sherlock said, and John lifted his eyes to look into Sherlock's. The expression there, for once, was open and unguarded, all there was, in that moment, was them; not just John, but a united creature of their making. Sherlock rose again, and then back, shifting his legs a little more apart to take John in deeper, and all that John could do was sit there and feel, watch Sherlock fuck him, fuck himself. The pace got quicker, rougher, and Sherlock put his hands on either side of John's face, rocking up higher and slamming down, his hair dripping down to frame his face, and they were caged together amidst limbs and heated air, their panted breath filling the space between their faces, a moist cloud of complete and utter destruction. John watched the shadows and light play across Sherlock's face and knew that there would be nobody else for him, that could fill the spaces in his cracked soul like Sherlock could.

"Grab by cock," Sherlock panted, his arms and thighs shaking, and John did so at once, jerking him roughly, wanting desperately to feel Sherlock come on him, see his face this close as he was pushed over the edge. Sherlock kept his eyes open, and so did John, as they were driven closer and closer towards the finish line.

"Come, John, Come for me _now_." John didn't need to be told twice and he let go, let go of the tension that had been building up like a sea wall, and it crashed on him, all salt and blood, a soundless cry choked in his throat, and Sherlock shattered on him, come hitting John's chest and chin and they shivered and disintegrated like foam in an ocean wind. Sherlock slumped forwards and they breathed against each other's shoulders until their heartbeats slowed down. Sherlock straightened slowly, carefully, and slid off John, pulling the condom off him and disposing of it in the wastebasket beside the couch. John shut his eyes, a boneless heap, feeling the blissful feel of his blood coursing through his veins. He took a deep breath and turned to look at Sherlock, expecting him to look as satiated as John, but John's stomach clenched slightly as he saw that wasn't the case at all. Sherlock had tensed, his trousers already raised and zipped, and John could see, could actually _see_ Sherlock shutting down, closing up, the guard dogs coming out to hunt around him. For a moment he could have sworn there was actual fear in Sherlock eyes, and then his face was blank and dead, staring unseeingly at the wall where John's scars were still cicatrized.

"Sherlock, don't do this," John said, pulling up his trousers, dread erasing any trace of afterglow. Sherlock leaned forwards, joining his hands into a fist and pressing it on his forehead as his elbows leaned on his knees.

"This was a mistake," Sherlock's voice said, a sound foreign to the panting place they had just left.

"Sherlock-"

"No, John. You were wrong. You might think I need this, but I don't. It's you, you, _you_ keep dragging it out of me, making me do these things-"

"Don't say that," John whispered harshly, "Don't you dare say that, as if I, I _forced_ myself on you. Don't you bloody say that, Sherlock." Sherlock lowered his hands, straightening up and looked at John with an expression of such apathy, of such detachment, that panic begun to rise within John.

"No, you're right. This isn't all on you. It's my fault too, for letting it go on so long, but I can learn from my mistakes. This is the end. This can't happen again."

"Sherlock, you're being ridiculous. Whatever you are thinking, whatever you are feeling-" But John was cut off harshly as Sherlock laughed humourlessly.

"Feeling? I'm not _feeling_ anything. This is over."

"Sherlock-"

"Furthermore, seeing as how your work has deteriorated completely this past week, I'm going to have to terminate our working relationship as well," Sherlock said, standing up and walking towards his desk. He stopped in front of it, his back turned to John.

"You can't be serious. You're _firing_ me?" John said, completely incredulous. This couldn't be happening. Sherlock couldn't just take this away as if...as if it wouldn't break John completely apart.

"I'm sorry, John," Sherlock said monotonously, "I know this must be difficult for you, but I'd be happy to write you a letter of-"

"Shut the fuck up," John said, grabbing his jumper and shoving it on. It was inside-out, but he didn't give a damn. He grabbed his clutch, and walked over to Sherlock, yanking him around.

"Don't do this. Sherlock..." John ran his hands through Sherlock's hair, and for a moment the other man closed his eyes, the crystallized mask cracking under the touch, but then Sherlock knocked his hand aside, stepping away from him.

"This is not up for negotiation. I am your boss. Nothing more, and you're fired. Now, get out," Sherlock said, looking at John unwaveringly. John said and did nothing, his shock a vicious paralytic. "Get out, John," Sherlock repeated.

"Sherlock-"

"GET OUT!" Sherlock shouted suddenly, and John jerked back. His chest was tight, his mind in complete denial, but as he looked at Sherlock, John saw that all his men were dead; the battle had been lost.

With slow, dead steps, he turned around, walking towards the door. When he reached it, he stopped for a moment.

"You were wrong, you know. I don't regret it," he said quietly. Behind him, there was silence. John left.

As he collected his few possessions in the reception room, a flashback of his meeting with Sherlock hit him suddenly; the crying girl that had fled the scene with a box filled with things, the way her eyes had darted away, the flush on her face. Had John been wrong all along, was he just another one of Sherlock's pets to play with and discard when they clung too tightly? Had John just fooled himself into believing he hadn't been completely alone all along?

John bit back angry tears as he left the building that had been more of a home to him in the past months than Harriet's house, feeling as if he had just been declared worthless for another war.

This time, he wasn't sure his soul would survive.


	5. Chapter 5

**On Your Knees**

**Chapter Five**

John watched the scene as if it were happening to somebody else. There was a small box opened in his hands, a diamond ring resting inside. He was down on one knee, and above him Mary's eyes were filled with tears as she said_ yes, yes, yes_, over and over again, and then she was pulling him up, and they were hugging and kissing and Mary looked so_ happy. _John just felt detached, numb, lost. What was he doing there? Why had he just asked Mary to marry him?

After John was fired, things started quickly spinning out of control. Outwardly, everything seemed the same. John told nobody about being dismissed, going out every morning and coming back every evening, spending his days wandering through Hyde Park or sitting in cafes, wondering how life could be so utterly soulless. He watched as people went through their daily lives, ignorant of war, of battle, drifting down the river with numb compliance. Civilian life. People said he would get used to it, but what they didn't seem to realise was that he didn't _want_ to. How could he make anybody understand that he couldn't stand the thought of knowing that there was a life out there for him, one that made him feel alive, made him who he was, and yet was stuck in the mud of an existence that made him desperate with loneliness, a gap widened between him and everybody else by all he had seen, all he had done. What he had found with Sherlock had been a remedy, a revelation, and now that Sherlock had selfishly taken it away John felt it was now impossible for him to fully heal with the knowledge that he could have more, but was denied it. The only solution he could find, a medicine that would alleviate the symptoms, but not cure the disease, was to put a mask firmly in place, to embrace this normal, dull life and fake who he was until he made it. Why couldn't he have a wife and 2.5 children and a normal job where he wouldn't be spanked over a desk when it pleased his boss? He could, would, push everything else down; there were millions of people living lives they didn't want. He would just add to the masses.

Mary's face was flushed with happiness as they pulled apart from the kiss. John stroked her cheek. She was beautiful, really. Kind. And she wanted John, or, at least, the only version of John she knew. But that would have to be enough.

Mary took his hand, and the wedding ring was cold and hard against John's skin.

...*...

There was a knock on his bedroom door, and John sat up on the bed, where he had been lying numbly, staring sightlessly at the ceiling.

"Yeah?" He called out, and the door open, Harriet's head peeking inside.

"Can I come in?" She asked. John smiled slightly, motioning for her to step inside. Truth be told, he was exhausted. It had been a week and a half since he had proposed to Mary, and he had spent the day with her parents, discussing the future. The whole event had been claustrophobic, and John had excused himself from going back to hers claiming headache and the deception of work the next day. They had decided on a long engagement, at least enough to find a flat together and attempt cohabitation before getting married. John had agreed numbly. One way or another it didn't really matter, the cage would be the same size in the end. He had gone back home and straight to his room, not feeling capable of any other action. The loneliness he felt, the sheer anxious sickness of knowing that this was it, that he would be trapped being this man for the rest of his life, had debilitated all other thought or emotion. He knew that eventually he would have to tell someone that he had lost his job and find a new one, and eventually he would have to let Mary get a good look at the scars on his thighs and explain the whole sordid story of his past, excluding, of course, Sherlock, and the scope of his web of lies was nauseating. Now, he could only hope that whatever Harriet had to say wouldn't drag him further down into the oceanic swell of bitter tasting despair.

"You don't look so good," Harriet said, rolling his desk chair and sitting down facing John, who shrugged noncommittally.

"I'm fine, just tried," he said emotionlessly. Harriet sighed, running her hand through her dirty blond hair.

"I wish you would talk to me, Johnny. But I guess it's a little late to play big sister, huh?" She said with an ironic smile. John returned it, feeling a clench of nostalgia at her use of his nickname. It had been many years since he had been called that.

"A bit, yeah," he said without malice. "And anyway, there isn't much to talk about. I'm getting married, I thought you'd be happy for me."

"I _am_ happy for you. Or, at least, I would be, if _you_ were happy," she said, looking at him. John sat up straighter, tensing.

"I'm happy. _I _asked _her_ to marry me, and she said yes. Why wouldn't I be happy?"

"I don't know, Johnny, I don't know you. I don't know what makes you happy, but I can tell when you are, and when you aren't. A month and a half ago you were happy. Now, you aren't," she said, and John stared at her. Of all the people to notice his pretence, he wouldn't have guessed his sister to be the one.

"I don't know what you're talking about. I'm perfectly fine," John said tersely. Harriet simply looked at him for a few moments, and her sharp hazel eyes were disconcerting. That look, it reminded him of bluer tones.

"We're quite the pair, you and I," she said quietly. "I know that the last person you probably want to take life advice from is me, but all I can say is that, whatever made you happy, don't let go of it. It's not worth it."

"Easier said than done," John said before he could think about it, and winced slightly at Harriet's smile, knowing he had showed his hand.

"I know," she said simply. "You can relax, I'm not going to ask. Just...well, if you want to talk, I'll try not being a complete cunt about it," she said, and John laughed slightly.

"Thanks, big sis," John said half-sarcastically, and Harriet smiled back at him.

"Ok, I'll leave you to your moping- oh, sorry, to your being fine. I've got an AA meeting, so..."

"Yeah, good luck with that. I'm...really proud of you, you know," John said softly.

"Yeah, yeah. Thanks," Harriet said, and mock-saluted him before closing the bedroom door behind her on her way out. John huffed a laugh and smiled for a moment before reality crept back in. He lay back down and put an arm over his forehead, closing his eyes.

He felt...sadness. A simple, blue feeling, round and whole and heavy. He was lost, he knew. Despite Harriet's advice, John knew that the possibility of going back to Sherlock was the same as returning to Afghanistan. All he could do was bite the bullet and go on with the papier-mâché life he had flimsily constructed in hope that it didn't crumble around him.

...*...

He hadn't been able to help himself. The pull was like an inescapable tide, and John risked drowning if he didn't follow the flow. The sound of the rain as it hit his umbrella submurged his thoughts, but was unable to wash away the frozen ground of his anxiety. He stood outside Sherlock's office building until he saw her come out, her form swallowed by a hooded trench coat. The new assistant was petit and pretty and she blushed and stuttered an apology as a man bumped into her carelessly. _Submissive_, said Irene Adler's voice in his head. She had been right about some things, and wrong about others; in the end, John hadn't lasted very long at all. He tried not to imagine what the girl's chores would be, exactly. Would her heart beat faster when Sherlock loomed over her with an order, his voice, his eyes, dark and piercing? Would Sherlock have her put her hands flat on the table as she read the manual, with his hand coming down on clothed flesh, her gasps breaking her voice in pieces? Would she like it? Would she, as John had, want more? Would her knees ache to hit ground, her tongue to taste salty flesh, would she take it, would Sherlock give it to her, give her what was rightfully John's? The questions were unbearable. That girl, she wouldn't understand, she wouldn't _need_, not like John did.

John had tried desperately to move on. In times of desperation, he had tried hitting himself on the backside with a book, Sherlock's gasped name etched on his teeth, but it hadn't been the same, hadn't been nearly enough. Panic often clawed at him at the most innocuous of moments; as he sat in the living room, watching _Come Dine With Me_ with his sister and Clara; as he took a walk with Mary around the park; as he brushed his teeth in the morning, his brain still foggy will sleep and nightmares. Suddenly it would come in a rush; this was it. This was all he had now. He could feel the ache of that knowledge in all his joints, deep within the bone. He had started looking for new jobs, but nothing could compare, nothing would fulfil, replace what had been lost. _Just one more miracle, Sherlock, for me_, he would dream in the depths of his sleep, but when he woke it was to the same monochrome life. And yet he was still unable to turn to his old, familiar habit, as if Sherlock's order continued to still the blade, as if Sherlock still had the right to any control at all. But part of John clung to the fact that once he harmed himself, it really would be over; the pain would wash everything away, even Sherlock.

When he left, it had stopped raining. Everything was left damp and cold.

...*...

The flat was nice. It was nice like Mary was nice; unobtrusive and bloodless and sweet. It seemed hollow and empty without furniture, but Mary's hand gestures described the possibilities of all it could hold. She had an old armchair that her mother had given her, it would go perfectly beside the fireplace. They could buy a new bed for the main bedroom, choose the perfect mattress together, they would sleep curled around each other every night, a place to contain their warmth and affection. There were two extra bedrooms, you know, just in case, though one could be turned into an office (for now).

Wasn't it perfect?

John felt a sort of terror at the prospect. This wasn't the delicious thrill of fear before jumping out of the frying pan and into the fire, this was an immobilising dread, and suddenly John could see all of it, spanning before him in a flat and dead horizon. He would go to work 5 days a week to a monotonous and unchallenging job. He would come back home to Mary, to their set routine; some days they would laugh, others they would bicker and fight, but there would be a stability and security threaded through everything. They would have children and they would change life forever, make it richer, more complex, but it would become routine; John's self concept would change to add "father", and he would adapt. Maybe the monotony would be broken up by a bi- or annual holiday; they would go to Greece, or Spain, or, if they were feeling particularly spoilt, they would venture to the United States, but everything would be planned and safe, characterised by tourist attractions and squabbles in the car. John would grow old, and nothing especially outstanding would happen. There would be no real pain, no struggle for survival, there would be no days when he wondered if he would live to see dawn, no moments which flared alive with the focusing power of fear and battle, there would be no terrible enemies, no chasing the bad guys, no shooting the gun, there would be no crops or sharp teeth, no dark voices ordering him down to his knees. There would be no respite, and there would be no escape. He would sink into his life with Mary and stay static in its grasp. Maybe they would get a dog, call him Lucky, and John would deny himself, hide himself, would pretend, and eventually, sickeningly, maybe he would be OK with it, would become a civilian, the soldier in his soul rusted away through disuse and negligence. And then John would die, he would die an old and fake man, with an old and fake life behind him, and nothing at all would really matter. All he would have would be regret, the regret that comes to those who have lived a life that they knew was not for them, when they know that it was through cowardice, and nothing else, that they came to that point in space and time.

"I- can you give us a moment? I, I need to sit down," he said, cutting the realtor short. The woman who had been showing them around looked at him in surprise, taking in his pale face, the hand clutching his cane like a life line, and backed away unsurely.

"John? My God, you look terrible, are you ok?" Mary said, holding his elbow with concern. John shook his head.

"Yes, yes, I just need a moment," he said unsteadily. Everything was too much. His ribs felt like a cage, keeping his breath hostage from his mouth.

"Uh, yes, of course. I'll be downstairs in the foyer, just call me when you need me," the realtor said hesitantly, and left, her heels clicking on the bare floors. John held on until he heard the front door closing before leaning against a wall and sliding down to sit with raised knees on the floor.

"John!" Mary exclaimed, kneeling beside him. John shook his head, trying to appease her, but there wasn't enough oxygen available to talk, to even form thoughts through the raw-wired panic. "John, what's going on? What is it? You're scaring me," Mary was saying, but her voice sounded far away, on the other side of the storm.

"I'm sorry, I'm sorry, I'm sorry," John chanted. God, he was so sorry, he was, but... "I can't do this. God, I, I though, I really, I'm so sorry Mary I'm sorry, but I _can't_, I just can't," John rambled incoherently.

"You...is this about the flat? John, I never meant to pressure you into anything. I thought you wanted this, we can wait until..." But John was shaking his head. He pressed his hands against his face for a moment, trying to collect the pieces of himself which were trembling loose.

"Mary, I'm so sorry. I...I can't do this. Any of this. I..." He lowered his hands and looked up at Mary's face, saw the sinking realization as worry transformed into numb shock, and the hand that she had wrapped around his arm was yanked away and cradled against her chest, as if John had suddenly turned acidic to the touch.

"You...you're calling off the wedding," she said hollowly, and John had to look away, the guilt awful and bitter tasting. "Why? John, why did you ask me to marry you if you '_can't_'?" She asked, her voice gaining some force.

"Because I thought that I could change. I thought I could...but I can't. I can't change, I'll never change. I'm no good for you, I'm no good for _this_. You would end up hating me. I would end up hating myself," John said, and then laughed humourlessly. "Well, more than I already do," he finished bitterly.

"What are you talking about? Change? Change from what? John, I love _you_, why would you have to change?" Mary asked, once again taking his hand, as if she could make herself understand through that simple contact. But nothing was that simple.

"Mary, I...I'm not the person you think I am. I...I cheated on you," he said, his voice dropping to an ashamed whisper. Even now he was unable to admit everything that had gone on between him and Sherlock, the true nature of their relationship, but the bare bones of it was that John had been unfaithful, and that was something that Mary would be able to understand.

Mary dropped his hand at once, gasping.

"_What?_" She said, standing up and taking a step away from him. John looked up at her, defenceless. "When? With who? Oh. Oh God. It's Sherlock, isn't it?" She said lowly, her eyes unfocusing as if recalling the clues that had been left to reach that conclusion. John flinched, gaping at her in utter shock.

"What...how did you know?" He blurted, and her eyes focused suddenly, her face tense with desperate anger.

"Oh, please!" She laughed bitterly, "John, the way you talk about him, you have no idea. I though...well, you looked so sad sometimes, and he seemed to put you in such a good mood...Oh God. All this time...why? Just...why would you string me along like this? Why the hell did you ask me to marry you? To make a fool out of me? _Why?"_ She demanded, towering over him, her eyes bright with tears, with humiliation and betrayal and pure fury.

"No! No, Marry, you have to understand, I never meant to hurt you. Please, God, I'm sorry, I am, I just...I just, I was ashamed, I guess, I...being with him, it was like being in another world. When I left it was as if it hadn't really happened, it seemed too good to..." He trailed off guiltily, looking up at Mary. What could he really say that would excuse him? His words were all just empty air compared to his actions. Nothing he could say would make up for the damage caused. Mary just stared at him for long, stripped seconds, until she moved slowly to take the wedding ring off her finger, letting it fall by John's feet. It clattered against the wooden floor, explosively loud in the deadness between them.

"Mary..."

"Don't. I don't want to see you ever again. You..." But whatever term she could have come up for him was lost as she bit her lip, looking at him for a second longer before fleeing the crime scene. The door was slammed with such force it seemed to ripple the air inside the flat.

For minutes, John just sat there, unable to cry, or move, or think. The weight of what he had done lay over him, a poisonous immobiliser.

But, buried deep beneath the dirt of his guilt, was a crystallized shard of relief.

...*...

His lungs were aching from the run. His cane had been lost somewhere in the madness that had overtaken him, but it didn't matter; his leg was silent and mobilized by his iron intention. He would not tolerate having this regret hang over him for the rest of his life. Maybe it was bravery, or most likely foolishness, but he had to confront Sherlock one last time. He had worked for, with, the man for months; John knew him. Knew his expressions, his habits, his desires and character, knew that in the place Sherlock liked to pretend was hollow beat a heart that needed and bled just as John's did. He would not let Sherlock go so easily. John was a man who fought for what he wanted, battled until he couldn't anymore.

"H-hey, excuse me!" The new assistant said as John strode into the reception room. He was sweating and panting and probably looked a complete, devastated mess, but he didn't care. He ignored the small woman and went into the hallway, following the familiar sounds of the violin. He threw the office door open and it banged against the wall, making jump Sherlock from his pose in front of the window. He turned to look at John, his expression surprised.

"John! What are you-"

"I love you." The words were simple and monosyllabic, overused and degraded by literature and the media, but there was a stark truth in them that John needed now. The release of them had a cathartic, calming effect on John. He didn't want moonlight and long walks on the beach, he didn't want a wife and home cooked meals and a stable life and a silent death. What he wanted, what he needed, was Sherlock; the battleground, the chases, the blood, the adrenaline, the pain, the days of case solving and frustrated silences and fights and the surprised affection when John complimented Sherlock, the feel of his pale skin, the smiles when John impressed him, when John got close and wouldn't move away, when John understood, and accepted. He needed Sherlock in his life because nobody else made him feel like he fit in his own skin, because nobody else made him feel like he wasn't alone and damned, because Sherlock made him feel alive and unbroken. It wasn't perfect, but John had never wanted that; he wanted something worth fighting for. Needed the violence of the storm between the bouts of misleading calm. Nothing else would do.

There was a gasp from behind John and he turned to see the new assistant with a startled hand over her mouth. John glared at her until she scuttled back to the reception room, and he closed the door before turning back to Sherlock, who was simply standing there, his shocked face now controlled into a guarded expression. But John wouldn't be fooled.

"You don't _love_ me, John. Pain, especially when combined with pleasure, creates a biochemical reaction in the brain which-"

"My God, would you listen to yourself! Don't you dare tell me what I do and do not feel. This isn't about science or logic or any of your bullshit. You haven't touched me in more than a month, so my brain is unclouded from all your little _biochemical reactions_. This isn't just about the pain! Or the pleasure, for that matter. For God's sake, you think you're so smart, but you refuse to see what right in front of you! Sherlock, I love you because you make me feel...like I can be myself. And I don't care how that fucking sounds, it's the truth. I'm _sick_ of pretending to be something I'm not, of trying to keep control over things that are uncontrollable. I want you. I need you. Not just to fuck you, or be fucked by you, I want to _be _with you. I want to go on cases, I want to be shot at with your dumb ass by my side, I want to go back home and have you be there so that I'm not so fucking _lonely_ all the time. You can make up your own excuses for not being with me, but don't you bloody tell me that I don't love you, Sherlock. There is nothing that your stupid, brilliant mind can think up to change that fact," John ranted, his voice harsh and raw, getting closer and closer to Sherlock as he spoke until he was standing right in front of him. Sherlock seemed completely immobilised by John's tirade, and as it ended, he stood there, staring, uncomprehending, at John.

"John..." He sighed, and John's throat clenched at the sound, but Sherlock was shaking his head, taking a step back to put some distance between them. "You may think you love me, but...this...we can't just do this every day," he said, his voice devoid of all fight. But John had enough for the both of them.

"Why not? What, now you're all for normality? I don't get it, you pave your own way with everything else, take everything you want, but, what, this is too weird? Too, too, too _what? _Why can't we do this everyday?" John demanded.

"Because, John, can't you see that if you give yourself up to me I'll take all of you? Can't you _see _that? I won't stop. I don't work right, everybody else can see that! Why can't you!" Sherlock said, raising his voice, getting more and more agitated. John felt a deep sadness at his words. For how long had Sherlock been shunned for who he was? For his intelligence, his cutting looks, his abrasive nature, his penchance for control and pain? He could be arrogant and demanding, but in truth Sherlock always expected the worst of people; for them to reply with a "piss off" in the face of his deductions, with a "freak" to the revelation of his interest in the morbid, with cruelty as he showed his brilliance. And now John was here, saying it was fine, that it was all fine, and how was Sherlock really supposed to trust that, in the face of a lifetime of rejection, of pitchforks and torches, how was the Frankenstenian monster to trust humanity again?

Silently, John fell to his knees before Sherlock. It was not a position of begging, or of prayer. It was a sign of complete trust, a relinquishing of control. _I believe in Sherlock Holmes_, those bent knees said. _I trust that in your hands, I will bleed, but I will never break._

John looked up at Sherlock, expression open and unending, and Sherlock's face seemed to tense in disbelief. For a minute they were frozen in place, eyes never leaving each other, until Sherlock seemed to collect himself, his shoulders straightening. He placed down the violin that had been hanging limply in his hands carefully, and walked to stand right in front of John.

"Do not move from this position. Don't let your knees leave the floor. Not for anything," he said softly. John just looked at him, until Sherlock stepped away suddenly and disappeared behind John, who didn't turn around to look. Sherlock's footsteps retreated and then his voice sounded from the reception room. There were a few moments of silence and then the front door opening and closing. Then, there was silence. John was alone. He closed his eyes and put his hands flat on his thighs.

This battle would not be lost.

...*...

Hours passed by numbly. John thought about his father, and the days of his childhood. He thought about his few months in university, about how oppressive everything had felt. He thought about the war, about the yellow sand, about the heavy, hot feel of his uniform, the long patrols around the wrecked and divided towns, about the blood, the metal of bullets, about his comrades and his days at the barracks. He thought about his sister, her mercurial life, her spiralling habits, his inescapable love for her. Thought about Clara, her soft voice and soft hands, her strength beneath those bird bones. About Mary, about his guilt and her devastation, about how, in the long run, she would be better off without him.

And he thought about Sherlock. He tried to think about Sherlock as a younger man, but the thought was sad and lonely and painful. Instead, John thought about the future. About Sherlock in ten, twenty, thirty years. About how it would be like to be beside him, even then.

At some point, Clara and Harriet showed up. It was early in the morning, and they appeared out of his exhaustion like a dream. Clara was worried and frantic and asked him what he was doing, what he was thinking, tried to pull him up, but he yanked himself away, keeping his knees solidly on the ground. In the end, and who would have guessed it, it was Harriet who calmed Clara down. She knelt in front of her brother and asked him very simply,_ Is this what makes you happy? _The answer had been just as simple.

_Yes._

She didn't pretend to understand what was going on, understand John or his needs, but in a unique act of mercy, she accepted it. She had not asked questions, had simply kissed John on his cheek before pulling Clara's confused form away. The silence seemed thicken and richer when they left.

John fought fatigue and hunger and thirst. Eventually he had to soil himself, but he was beyond caring at that point, keeping himself awake by sheer force of will. A whole day passed. Time became distorted as John would doze and then jerk awake. Phantoms came to visit him; his mother, as she was before the sickness had taken hold of her. His father, in the depth of his despair. His training officer when he first joined the military. His closest friend in the war. The man he had let die in his arms. They were all ghosts, memories, they smelt like freshly peeled oranges, from a trip to the south of Europe he had made as a child. The scent was tangy and bittersweet and reminded him of sunshine and dirt.

Another half day passed. He had barely slept or eaten for a week, and not at all since more than two days ago, the lack of rest or substance or liquid had transported John to a senseless and far away land. Dawn was beginning to dust the air, puddling on the floor, warming the round edges of his bent knees. Everything seemed ethereal and otherworldly. Finally, from that light came another phantom, but this one was solid and familiar, and it propped John up on strong, thin arms. John leaned against a body, and it smelt perfectly familiar, so warm it made him ache.

"Sherlock," John said quietly, but a voice shushed him, and he was spirited away; the leather interior of a black car, the cold air of London, and then Sherlock's cluttered flat. John remembered that table, though he was too tired to think of much else. The next thing he knew, his skin was completely bare, and John was being submerged to his neck in warm water. He sighed in relief. All his bones creaked in approval, the tension leaving their joints. He opened his eyes and blearily watched Sherlock as the man made him drink some kind of sweet, thick substance, and then, with slow and soft movements, washed John. His hands were so delicate, when they wanted to be. There was no pain here. There was no anxiety, and no loneliness. There was tepid water, and soap, and Sherlock. _Sherlock_.

When he next came to, he was naked and dry beneath blankets and sheets, and Sherlock was beside him, a finger drawing equations on his skin.

"Do you believe me now?" John asked. The fog descended, but within it he and Sherlock stood, and his voice was clear and strong.

"Yes, John. I believe you."

...*...

When John woke, it was dark. He blinked, disoriented, wondering where he was. The first thing he noticed was that he was completely naked. The second was that Sherlock was beside him.

"Seventeen hours," a low voice said, and John turned his head to look at Sherlock's shadowed form, his eyes getting accustomed to the dark so that he could make out the angles of the other man.

"What?" John asked blearily.

"Seventeen hours. That's how long you've been asleep," Sherlock replied in that same quiet, night time voice.

"Oh. Right," John said. "What time is it?"

"Two in the morning." Everything was still and calm. A car rumbled past outside and disappeared, leaving them in a more obvious silence. John stretched his limbs slightly under the covers, feeling warm and rested. The shadows around him moved, and he felt a finger trace one of his cheekbones. He closed his eyes.

"This is real, right?" John asked, his voice as soft as the sheets, as the skin that whispered over his cheek. He was not asking if this was a dream, a phantom of his imagination. He was asking if Sherlock had stopped running, if the moment was not just a temporary illusion that would hold no tangibility in their lives. If John was here to stay, or just transport.

Sherlock pressed against John's side, the smooth material of his pyjamas caressing bare skin, and a mouth descended over John's, just a simple press of lips, of reality, of admission. John sighed and parted his lips, and two tongues came to touch slightly, before Sherlock pulled away.

"Good," John whispered. Under the blankets, a pale hand moved to brush over John's skin; over a jutting hip bone, the soft flesh of a stomach, the round form of a nipple. John closed his eyes again, letting himself feel. There was a warmth inside him that had little to do with the covers that enveloped them.

"You have to know that I'm terrible at this, John. People...relationships. They are not my area of expertise. If only you were an equation..." Sherlock's voice faded away. John smiled a little ruefully.

"Sherlock, no relationship is easy. They all demand hard work. All of them. And I don't even want something perfect, something simple. Don't think I don't know how you're like. I know to expect body parts in the fridge, and for you never to cook or do the shopping, for you to become a recluse when a case is on, and to be a nutter when you've spent too long without one. But I also know that you will protect that which is yours with your life. I know that you try, and I know that you care. I know that you will stand by me, that you will make me feel like a better man, like a more complete one. I know that you will give me what I need. And I know that you'll make me happy. That's the simple truth. You make me happy. I don't want anything else," John said into the night. There was a long pause, but Sherlock's hand kept tracing patterns into John's skin.

"I think you're a fool," Sherlock said softly, his lips a hot presence at John's neck, and John smiled, turning towards Sherlock, pressing closer.

"If that's the case, then so are you," John said into Sherlock's lips, and for the first time initiated a kiss. Sherlock opened his mouth for him, and John slipped a tongue inside, feeling a deep and almost frightening thrill.

He had made it.

Sherlock reached over behind him and turned on a lamp. The light spilled, transforming Sherlock into a silhouette before John's eyes became accustomed to the change and he could see the glowing skin, dusted gold over Sherlock's shoulder, the back of his neck, the sparse hairs over his arm that were standing on end despite the warmth. Sherlock pulled down the covers slightly, and John let himself be bared, vulnerable to attack or protection. A trembled breath left John as Sherlock begun to examine every inch of John's skin with his fingertips. First, the bullet wound scar at his shoulder, and Sherlock's low voice, the only sound in the bell jar they found themselves in, described proximity, trajectory, number and nature of operations, calibre of bullet. The pads of his fingers felt the soft hair at John's chest, the pebbled nipples, the skin over carotid, over pulse, the chapped shapes of lips, the fragile skin of eyelids. He let his hands explore all of John's scars, guessing their age, the choice of instrument used, and John would correct him or expand in a quiet voice; a scalpel, when his mother had died, five criss-crossed lines; a burn from when he had a panic attack when he was fifteen; the dig of a razor from his university days. All the cicatrized skin was named and catalogued for Sherlock, mapped between oceans of skin and islands of nail and teeth. Then, Sherlock moved to the topography of John's endogenous zones with his mouth. A tongue exploring John's sighing mouth. The fluttering skin over a hummingbird pulse, teeth dragging over the wingbeats, now. The round, puckered shape of nipples, nipped and licked, drawing the hard peak between Sherlock's lips. A blowing of breath over John's sensitized wrist, tracing the suggestion of a nail across the veins. The underside of thighs, that vulnerable underbelly, a press of palms, a squeeze of fingers, the biting nails, and then the hot mouth, and by the point John was squirming, the sheet tangling around his feet. Sherlock let himself caress John's ankles, the back of his knees, as his mouth explored those old scars, and then his nose pressed higher up, smelling the heady musk, all John, Sherlock's nails dragging across John's backside, the flat of his tongue tracing half the circumference of a testicle, and John tried not to arch his back, to keep still, but he couldn't help a slight whine escaping from behind clenched teeth as his cock leaked slightly on his stomach. Sherlock braced his hands under John's knees and pushed them up again his chest, now between them, and ran his mouth lower. He bit at the tensed skin on one side before his tongue pressed forward and into John's entrance. John pulled at the sheet under him, moaning as Sherlock begun to thrust in and out, John arched his neck, his eyes wide and unseeing, Sherlock hummed against him and John's hot breath panted out of his dry mouth.

"Sherlock," he moaned, and Sherlock pulled away, leaving John empty and wanting, ducking under John's leg to pull a bedside table drawer open and take out a tube of lube and a condom. John watched him with wide pupils as Sherlock coated his fingers in the lube, before returning between John's legs, John shifting to accommodate him. Sherlock grabbed at a pillow and pushed it under the small of John's back, who arched and settled.

"John," Sherlock said quietly as he inserted a long finger, and John closed his eyes at the stretch. Behind closed eyelids, the letters of Sherlock's name fluttered and glowed, before breaking apart. A second finger was added, and John felt the rings of muscle give way, tilting slightly to better the access, and Sherlock set a slow, torturous rhythm that had John sweating and groaning until a third finger was pressed in. The burn heightened, but still it wasn't enough. Finally, the fingers were removed, and John focused his eyes to watch Sherlock as the man removed his pyjama trousers and pants, memorizing his expression; those flushed cheeks, that parted, wet mouth, those dark eyelashes. Sherlock rolled the condom on and settled over him, his head hanging over John's. He stilled for a moment, and John lifted his hand to trace Sherlock's cheek, burying his fingers in Sherlock's hair. Sherlock closed his eyes in an almost desperate frown, and then pushed in, a slow but steady thrust. John gasped, clutching at Sherlock's curls, pulling him down to taste the groaned breath on his lips. Sherlock bit as John's mouth, a tongue pushing harshly against John's, and then he started moving, a concave dip to his back, his shoulder blades jutting out like wings behind him, before pushing back in again, and again, and again. The air was all breath between them, and John moved his feet so that they were pressing against the back of Sherlock's thighs as they moved in a relentless rhythm. The moon was high up in the sky, and the tide around them rose, washing their wounds in salt.

This did not promise to be an easy ride, but John and Sherlock, they came as a pair. _Holmes and Watson_, it was as if history had meant for this storm to occur, and as it rained upon them, breaking them apart, remoulding them with pieces of each other, John knew this was not just about pain, or release, but a self-made fate, a raw completion. He could not be the man he was with anybody else.

Sherlock opened his eyes as he came, looking deep into John. He, too, was changed by this, his years of solitude robbed of their sharp edges to become something that could live tranquilly within him.

The next day, Lestrade would barge in with a case; a pink coated suicide, and John would leave his cane behind with a _God, yes_ as he exits the flat with Sherlock. But, for now, there was sweat, and strangled names, and pain, and pleasure.

Outside it began to rain, but inside Sherlock's room the press of skin and bite of nail was a barricade against the cold of water and smog.

* * *

**A/N**

That's it guys, thanks for staying with me and I hope you enjoyed!


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